


The Prelude to Madness

by SerAnneliese



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dawn of the Future, Episode Ardyn Prologue, Episode Prompto, F/M, I had so much fun writing for Verstael, M/M, Pre-Main Game, episode ardyn, he's a feral little scientist and his moods flip further and higher than a porch swing, in case you couldn't tell their height difference drives me wild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 98,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerAnneliese/pseuds/SerAnneliese
Summary: “You say that this civilization of Solheim possessed technological wonders. Have you yet to acquire any of them?”“Yes, in fact, though the results are still under much scrutiny,” he answers. “But that is where you come in. With the ability to daemonify anything you wish, we may yet have much advancement towards the goal of conquering Lucis, something which serves both our purposes and ushers in a new era of civilization. I’m certain daemons hold the key to this new future.”“So, you seek to rebuild Solheim in these modern times?” he asks. He can’t help but feel sickened at the thought, the vestiges of his upbringing lingering in his thoughts.“To surpass them,” the scientist answers.As much as Ardyn Izunia, né Lucis Caelum, enjoys his current station, this was not always the case. Having survived execution and now two millennia removed from his time, he finds himself in a new, unfamiliar world. One Chief Besithia acts as both guide and influencer.





	1. PROLOGUE/So Far In Time

**Author's Note:**

> howdy howdy  
> Episode Ardyn wrecked my world and this fic is a result of that. I've never been a fan of the Chancellor but I always appreciated his depth as a character. Now, I understand what lead to his eventual lunacy and the distinct rise of magiteknology within the Empire, spearheaded by everyone's favorite(?) wacky scientist, Verstael Besithia. The Episode itself didn't give me enough fat to chew on regarding his dramatic turn from gentle healer to grandiloquent mastermind so I've made my own B)  
> there are parts which I've taken dialogue and actions from the canon events, then there's a paraphrase of them. AND THEN there's the bits I've constructed myself and squeezed deliciously in-between all of it to create a narrative just in-character enough to fit /and/ be tastefully homoerotic. time will tell whether the rating will change but you're safe from anything explicit for now hue hue.  
> y'all thirsty Versdyn fans will hopefully appreciate my content. as for those who haven't played Ep. Ardyn/don't care much for the ship, this fic can be read a number of ways, including as two dudes just being guys in a weird facility in the middle of the mountains. any way you slice it, I hope you appreciate it! please tell me what you think in the comments and have a wonderful experience.

PROLOGUE

“My friend, do you recall the child who was stolen from this facility?”

The question, seemingly in the spirit of nostalgia, is the prelude to a conversation. Verstael scoffs, pulled from his headspace by the airy Chancellor Izunia.

“The one those Lucians absconded with?”

He barely takes note of the man’s gestures, so far ingrained in his mind from years of interaction. The Chancellor circles around to his other side, swagger unmissable in both voice and walk.

“Precisely. I thought you might like to see the fine young man he’s become these twenty-odd years later…”

He pauses for dramatic effect though Verstael knows where he’s going with this pompous introduction.

“So, as thanks for bringing your pets to Insomnia, I’ve brought the boy to you.”

Almost violently, he swings around toward the lab’s control bay and lifts a hand imperiously.

“The time has come to meet your maker! Any questions for daddy dearest?”

From the corner of his eye, the scientist peeks worried, purple eyes and a mess of blond hair stuffed beneath a knitted cap. Good. He’s right to be afraid. For what Verstael has planned for him, it’s a wonder he doesn’t shrink in fear from the pure animosity gnawing below his skin. He knows the Chancellor can sense his rabid appetite and thinks if the boy has anything akin to social sense he’d flee and give himself a headstart from despair. Then again, Ardyn Izunia has been his closest confidant for over three decades and could use his tricks of the mind to pass as Verstael without a single seam coming loose. For him, however, Adagium still paints a disfiguring portrait. As time has passed he has grown more and more esoteric, the machinations of his corrupted mind presenting and ever-puzzling statue. Why would he bring the boy here, at the end of the Earth where he was first created and erstwhile stolen from? He knows one thing remains constant, always, in the workings of the archaic madman: everything is by a design and for express purpose.

“Adagium,” he begins, eyes roaming the daemonic activity in the frosted tubes before them. Ardyn chuckles airly.

“Adagium!” he exclaims. “That is a name I have long since heard! To think I once resented the title, but as of late have found myself yearning for its sound. Ah, my dear colleague, you know just what this man needs to lift his spirits to the clouds.”

“For what purpose have you brought him here?”

He gauges the Chancellor’s reactions from the sides of his view. Looking directly upon the man activates some primal part of his being, the creature boiling below his epidermis aggravated to life by the sheer presence of his daemonic power. Hidden under the layers and layers of fine clothing, beneath the uniform Adagium wears in the form of a person, and coiled behind the silver tongue of a limitless being as himself lies, truly, the most fearful fiend mankind has never dreamt. How he keeps such magnificence tucked away in his fractured psyche Verstael will never understand; the cracks and stains of an existence impermeable to any form of renovation must warrant leak from time to time. How the putrid excuse for a mortal shell before him hasn’t degraded from the weight of it all is beyond his comprehension, perhaps forever. As for his own mortal coil, he knows the time is near.

“Why, no other reason than fondness. To you I owe my very life, wouldn’t you agree? Were it not for the fortuitous day you broke me free from womb’s shadow and into the light of the world as it is, well… I struggle to think. A stone sarcophagus would my home have remained, ‘til the very last support failed and I were crushed ‘neath its weight. Same as the man of yore, cursed to tread the Earth on barren heel for the sin of murdering his brother. Serendipity is indeed our friend, Chief Besithia.”

“Serendipity.”

Verstael feels the bones in his neck rearrange-- a sign of his coming descension.

“... Yes.”

For a man to achieve his magnum opus he must, once and for all, submit to the work itself. To offer his body and life to the maw of creation and let it be torn asunder. To answer the scientific question so long plaguing his mind, based so far down in the marrow of his bones.  _ What will it take to leave a mark on the world? _

He turns his head to his shoulder once, then again to the other side. The vertebrae snap in what shouldn’t be a relief, judging by the noise generated, but grant him a peace in his gut.

“Tell me, Adagium… Would you give me the honor of your audience for my transformation?”

Ardyn accompanies his shiver with a noise of excitement.

“Why, I simply couldn’t. I bring this poor child to the freezing arctic of your laboratory and you ask that I intrude upon your father-son time? I would never insert myself as a member of this tender family. The audacity!”

He sees himself to the exit on the far wall, hidden amidst the panels. He thumps a finger on a tube as he passes, the face of the subject inside violently peaceful under degradation.

“I shall watch, as a Watcher does, from the sidelines. Consider me always your fly on the wall. Your record-keeper, keeping tallies of the passing events in his ledger. Only when I am called for it by design shall I make known my existence to Eos and its proceedings. After all,”

He pauses in front of the doorway as Verstael registers the opening of automatic locks from the door behind him. There’s no longer a set of prying violet eyes beyond the glass. Ardyn lifts the hat from atop his head and presses it to his belly, a small bow in meaningless supplication accompanying the gesture.

“I am a man of no consequence.”

 

Under the bleaching lights of the magitek facility of Niflheim, Ardyn feels irregular. To say he recalls the state of regular would be a stretch, but he knows it’s not this. This world is… artificial. The walls, the fixtures, even the clothing reek of mass manufacturing and the machines responsible for them are something beyond his wildest imagination. Artificial, machine, mass manufacture… these are words and phrases he knows only from pieces of conversation in his head. From the few poor souls his curse has subjugated he’s learned of the world outside of this frozen prison. Light sources sustained not by fire or the sky but by energy harnessed from water or the Earth’s living elements itself. Great metal things towering above a person, as much capable of destruction as creation. For all he knows, they’re instruments of war, not prosperity or peace.

That is, for all he knows, however. What he knows of even this artificial world is severely limited.

A disembodied voice has told him to see one Chief Besithia. Where that voice came from or how it knew he had once again became conscious Ardyn cannot care to wonder, despite the crushing anxiety of it all. His curiosity is disabled by the overwhelming emptiness possessing his form. He knows he is himself, but is merely a fraction of what he once was. Where light and goodness once radiated he feels sickness and ill-intent. He hasn’t been able to gaze upon his hands for fear of seeing the manifestation of these feelings. Instead, he procrastinates following the orders of the voice and observes his chambers.

The bed upon which he sits is small and disorderly. He attributes the latter to fitful sleeping. Everything else around him is precisely placed and positioned, thoroughly untouched. He plants his feet on the cold ground and stands, surprised to feel himself walk without trouble. The sensation is alien at first-- he estimates he’s been asleep for some time. The events of his kidnapping from the sacred island are foggy at best, the result of a stale memory. He peeks the many volumes lining the wall, all the same height and thickness, labeled with meaningless numbers and symbols. Does this new world simply detest poetry or is it still a practice at all? What a dreadful existence, he thinks.

He’s dressed in what feel and smell like secondhand garments: scratchy, unpleasant things that cover his body but he wishes weren’t. They droop around his frame and refuse to fasten where they should. He feels disadvantaged in this state, like he’s found himself destitute with only burlap to maintain his dignity. It’s not humbling, he realizes. It’s humiliating.

“These obviously weren’t tailor-made…”

He stops, eyebrows creasing. His voice feels dry, a worn crack to it he’s unfamiliar with. To his findings there’s no fountain or other source of water in this cell. Figures. Perhaps he’s been asleep for so long that humans no longer require hydration to continue functioning. He would be the fellow lost in time in a world without food or water. Perhaps it’s for the best that he rot away and let the wind carry his ashes.

He knows, deep down, that that is impossible for him now.

Ardyn saunters to what appears to be a door and decides to exit. Before he can reconcile how it opens without a handle, it does so, but from the inside-out. He fears it will spear him if he lingers too long in its way so he strides past it, padding down a set of stairs. He gasps involuntarily when a man in armor marches past, helmeted head taking no note of him. He’s paused where he stands, cautious of the metal-plated man. The soldier walks right on by, however, and continues his patrol, dark metal tube in hand. Ardyn spots what appears to be a trigger and reasons that he carries a form of crossbow or other projectile-launcher, though no arrows are on his person. He proceeds to the bottom of the stairs and makes a turn, backtracking to gaze out of a solitary window.

Beyond it lies a vast, snowy mountain range. To anyone else it may seem magnificent, the highest peaks hidden behind foggy clouds of precipitation. But to Ardyn, the sight is dismal. He makes the observation out loud to himself then continues forward, inferring that the man known as Chief Besithia lies where the guards stand watch. He does try another door, free from surveillance, but it doesn’t budge. How the armored men, and women, he notes, stand at attention at the correct door, their faceless, expressionless helmets remaining forward always, unnerve him. The entry opens with ease and he’s met with his first sight of real color in a long time.

The room is white and grey, with a gilded table placed in the middle of it. Candles burn brightly in their holders and he feels a strange fondness for them, their wicks fretted with a more familiar light source. Under their lights, he feels less drained, though the way their shadows dance along the wall startles him slightly. They’re more animated than the soldiers outside, he realizes. Far less mechanical.

To his right he senses human movement and directs his gaze. A man, real and human, sits at the end of the table. He has a cup brought to his mouth but his eyes pierce over the rim of it.

He swallows whatever contents are in it and beckons with a hand for Ardyn to join him. He seems unbothered by Ardyn and acknowledges him with an uncanny fondness, a smile decorating his face. He has nothing to call it besides a smile, but it’s empty similar to how he feels inside. All of the elements for it are there but there’s nothing behind it, he reconciles. Farcical and deceptive.

“Come. Have a seat.”

Now this, is truly unnerving. The man presents himself to Ardyn as one of a youthful age, not beyond his early thirties. His hair is the color of the lights illuminating the facility and his face is shaped like that of a childhood friend. He’s of a far smaller stature than Ardyn himself, made even more apparent as he seats himself at the only other chair, stationed to the man’s left. For all appearances he should sound like a young man but instead he bears the deep, mature voice of someone far past his age. It resonates throughout the room from far within his chest and lodges in Ardyn’s ear. Even his own speaking voice can hardly match the octave.

He eyes the contents of the table, already weary from the exertion of observation. It too looks and smells artificial, though the stack of fresh bread on a silver platter catches his attention. He doesn’t necessarily feel hungry, but thinks there could be more good than harm done from eating. He leans forward and folds his hands together, beginning a small prayer. The man’s voice scratches through his concentration.

“Don’t want your food getting cold, do you?”

Ardyn doesn’t open his eyes but signals with the ease of a teacher that he cannot be bothered at the moment. He takes it that the man understands and lets him finish his prayer in silence, Ardyn throwing in a wish for him to be forgiven for his ignobility. When he opens his eyes the man is patiently chewing his food, preparing for the next bite.

He sits back in his chair, head suddenly aching. The man, Ardyn realizes, is the one who sequestered him from the island and into this facility. He was the first face he saw upon awakening, the memory of it reinforced by the feeling of hooks being torn out of his flesh and his body being trudged out into the night air. It was a full moon that night, he recalls. If he was uncertain of his changed state, that only reinforced it as something supernatural. The man, whom Ardyn now assumes is Chief Besithia by his fanciful armor and blinding atheism, makes to speak again.

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

Ardyn makes eye contact and hopes his annoyance is palpable.

“No.”

Besithia nods, casting his eyes aside before regaining contact.

“You’ve been asleep for years. Learning to appreciate the waking world will take time. Perhaps I can help enlighten you while we dine.”

He says this with a toasting gesture, bringing his cup to his mouth and drinking from it once more. If Ardyn’s displeasure was evident he’s made no sign of having noticed. That, or he’s chosen to ignore it.

“If you’ve any questions for me, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Ardyn wishes he’d oblige his need for a less gritty voice as the first one he’s heard in what has been, apparently, years. Besithia sets his cup down and faces Ardyn fully, eyes attentive and expression open. If he’s faking the hospitality, he’s doing a wonderful job. Ardyn decides to start by addressing the feeling that this man has already had his hands on his body, despite the fact of his unconsciousness. The same slimy sensation sits on his skin as Besithia emits as an aura. Ardyn reaches for the cup set before him and is grateful it contains water. He nurses it for a moment then replaces it.

“Was your examination of me a fruitful one?”

His voice sounds tired and meek. Were he not feeling so, he would down the water and ask for more. To lessen the feeling of fire in his throat is all he asks for right now.

The fire in Besithia’s eyes, however, ignites under the invitation for conversation and he gestures grandly despite the simplicity of his words.

“Oh, yes. You’ve proved far more fascinating than expected. No wonder they kept you locked away.”

He raises an eyebrow at Ardyn when he says this and it makes him uncomfortable.

“To think the powers of a daemon could dwell within the heart of a man. It’s incredible! The Starscourge doesn’t sap your life force. It gives you more! Your cells can regenerate themselves, and you can daemonify other life forms as well. There’s no doubt. You are--”

“A monster.”

Ardyn feels bile rise in his throat. His face is in a permanent form of discontent, and he’s already tired of looking at Besithia’s numerous freckles. The way he flaunts his learning is almost sickening, like any and every other person is far below his standing. They should grovel before his learned might, Ardyn reasons bitterly. But his response is quick and assertive.

“Not a monster. A marvel.”

He lets out a maniacal laugh and Ardyn sneers at his empty plate. Besithia keeps on talking, however.

“I can’t wait to unravel all of your mysteries.”

Ardyn raises a hand to his face and rubs it tiredly. Perhaps he should change the subject before Besithia began actually undressing him here in the dining hall and not just with his eyes.

“How long has it been since you’ve brought me here?”

“Two hundred and four days. Roughly seven months or so. Then again… the Lucians had you locked away in that prison for nearly two millennia. I’d be more surprised if you hadn’t lost all concept of time.”

He takes a breath, looking out over his dinner.

“You must loathe those Lucians for what they did to you.”

Ardyn had been thinking of partaking of bread but he pushes the thought aside, suddenly  _ very _ not hungry. He wouldn’t want to eat anything on the table except for it, however. He’s not even sure what half of it is. He gives voice to his question but regrets it when Besithia begins rambling again, something about how the meat is from beasts he cloned himself in this facility.  _ Cloned _ is a terrible word to put in the context of an animal and Ardyn feels sick at the thought of this impure form of birth. He has to interrupt the scientist, angry at his disrespect for the natural order of things.

“Enough, I’ve no ear for the ramblings of a lunatic.”

He slumps into his chair and decides to get to the point.   
“What is it you want from me, anyhow? What about me interests you so?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? You were chosen by the gods. And, frankly, with powers like yours, I’d say you’re nearly a god in your own right. We need those powers that you possess. With your strength on our side, we could finally put an end to that gruesome war with Lucis.”

Though he hates to admit it, Ardyn has learned so much already from this conversation. He’s learned that there’s an ongoing war between countries, and he’s most certainly no longer in his home of Lucis. The fact that Lucis still stands after 2,000 years twists like a knife in his gut, and made worse by the fact that he still considers himself, what Besithia so callously spits, a Lucian. That technology has advanced so far in time that copying a living thing several times over seems like child’s play to these people, and they cast the names of the gods around so effortlessly. Whatever world he came from, this one is a whole new beast.

Besithia has been talking this whole time. He stands up from his chair and leans across the table, hand extending then turned into a resolute fist.

“You, too, must desire the fall of the kingdom that cast you into exile?”

Of all the feelings he’d felt during this unfortunate dinner, none were stronger than the current wave of nausea, followed by exhaustion. Ardyn stands and slightly mimics Besithia’s posture, leaning into the table for effect.

“My desires are all in the past.”

He pushes himself away, making for the exit.

“The man who wronged you may have died long ago, but his descendants live on to this day.”

He sounds pleading now, like he’s made an attempt at empathy and believes himself immovably correct.

“Surely you must bear them some feelings of ill will?”

Ardyn turns to him slowly and Besithia looks as if he’s gotten what he wanted. However, his face falls back to neutral when Ardyn shuts him down.

“My feelings are  _ none _ of your concern.”


	2. The Truth of This Is Fretted

Where Ardyn thought he was safe from the ramblings of Chief Besithia, he was sorely mistaken. After several small tours of the immediate facility, he learns that the scientist operates it exclusively. He feels too ill to investigate it for the first few days and fights when Besithia tries to have food sent to his room. After he refuses it several times in a row, the man himself pays him a visit and attempts to force it down his throat. Ardyn lashes out and launches the tray across the room, wrestling free of Besithia’s grasp and retreating to behind the desk. The scientist merely sighs, patience for his prized possession only admissible because he knows Ardyn has what he wants. The thought thoroughly disturbs him. If only this madman could siphon the sickness from his body and return him to his original form, then he would be more than happy to oblige with the feedings and the tests. But no matter how often Besithia claims they could help one another, Ardyn knows that he will never be free of this curse. That he has been spurned and must atone, somehow, for his sins. If being constantly pestered by this short, insufferable man is his recompense then he wishes he could serve a longer sentence elsewhere, away from his whirring machines and grabby hands. By what he thinks is the first week of consciousness, he no longer feels the pangs of hunger or thirst. Besithia finds this remarkable.

“A being of true substance,” he declares. “Unfettered neither by the passage of time nor the lack of nutrition. All you feed from is the burning desire for revenge.”

“Hardly,” Ardyn thinks to himself. As contradictory as it seems, his emptiness has filled him completely. All he can think of, when he’s not actively blocking out the nonsense from the blond’s mouth, is how homesick he feels. Every other emotion is stonewalled by his want to return to his own time. To sit with Aera beneath the trees of the plains and watch the golden sun set below the rows of wild wheat. To feel the softness of her hand caressing his face once more and the lilt of her playful voice dance in his ears again. It’s when he doesn’t move from his bed at all that the hallucinations start.

At first, he was sure they were real. That he had fallen asleep in that distant, future world and reawoken in his own time and home. He sees his beloved, standing with all her grace, beside a fig tree. He rushes toward her and envelopes her in his arms, head resting atop hers. She remains stiff, however, and when he looks down to ask what’s wrong, he feels his eyes widen in terror. Her own eyes are inverted, whites turned black and sick oozing from the corners of her mouth and snaking in the veins above her skull. She grabs his face, and with inhuman strength, pushes him down and pounces on top of him, pinning him down. He feels himself struggling but cannot move.

“My love, please!” he calls out. Her fine dress is tattered and stained with dirt and she disregards how she rips it when she straddles his waist.

“Kill me!” she cries, face twisted in a way that mocks her innate purity. None of that is showing now and Ardyn knows for certain this is a farce. He struggles harder against her grip and is suddenly thrust into a room with blinding lights above, sweat pouring down his face and dampening his shirt. He glances downwards and sees that he’s shackled to an unfamiliar bed. The metal restraints dig into his wrists and ankles as he tries, in vain, to free them and stand. He hears a door open and turns his head quickly, vision still swimming.

Besithia strides toward him, clipboard in hand. He wears a neutral look.

“Are you awake?” he asks. Ardyn looks down and tries to wiggle his feet free once more.

“Yes. I believe so.”

“Good. It took four soldiers to drag you out of your room and into this observatory. Your hair was knotted from you pulling it so we had to take a few inches off.”

He hears this anecdote but it doesn’t register first on his list of important things. Right now he needs to be sure he’s actually awake.

“Pinch me.”

“Pinch you?”

The response is far cattier than he’d like so he snaps back.

“Pinch me, please! For gods’ sake, please.”

Besithia eyes him for a moment before stepping forward and pinching his upper arm. Ardyn feels the twing of pain and sighs, heart rate slowing. The scientist steps back and watches as his subject takes deep breaths to calm himself down.

“Feel better?”   
Ardyn nods. Besithia does the same. He sets his clipboard down on a nearby table and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. This is the first time Ardyn has seen him without what he assumes to be his military uniform. Instead of the armored collar and red felt cape ensemble, the scientist wears a simple cream shirt with buttons secured all the way to the top. He has it tucked into a pair of black slacks-- common fashion for this day, Ardyn recalls from his stolen memories-- and a pair of leather shoes. He reaches into a box and stretches on a pair of green gloves.

“I’m going to need to take those off of you,” he states, ensuring that his gloves are on tight. His gaze is at his legs and it catches Ardyn’s eye, one light eyebrow raising when he sees hesitation there.

“My pants?” he asks. Besithia scoffs.

“No, not those. Those restraints. I can’t perform a full physical examination with you tied down.”

Ardyn releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Very well. Do as you must.”

Besithia approaches him again and lays a hand to his forehead. Judging the temperature to be sufficient, he moves to unlock the restraints at Ardyn’s ankles. They open with a click and he feels relieved almost immediately.

“Move your toes for me,” Besithia says. Ardyn complies with a few wiggles. The scientist nods and moves up.

“Now your legs.”

He arches his knees and lets them fall flat against the table, repeating this movement several times. Besithia grabs his calves and pushes his feet flush with his thighs, letting go shortly after. He leaves the table momentarily to scratch something on his clipboard. Ardyn remains how he was left, staring at the blank ceiling above.

“I’m going to undo your arm restraints next,” the scientist states. Ardyn watches as he unlocks first his left hand, then circles around the table to the right. Like a wounded animal, he immediately brings one hand to the other wrist to rub at the irritated skin there. Besithia once again has his clipboard and is writing without looking at the page.

“Stop that worrying, would you? Your levels of pain tolerance are beyond anything ever recorded. Only once you free yourself from those mental barriers will you roam the halls of absolute autonomy.”

He glances downward and flips the page up, reading something on the one below it before letting it be covered once more.

“How can you write without looking?” Ardyn asks, sitting up and swinging his feet off the edge. He assumes the table is set for Besithia to reach so his own feet hit the ground sooner than he expects them to. Besithia hums once deep in his throat.

“A skill learned from years of observation. When I must sit and watch for changes in subjects, I’ve trained myself to split my concentration: some for seeing with my eyes, some for recording, and some for formulating future plans. It all pays into the scientific process, you see. In addition, I’ve trained myself not to blink in times of rapid growth or molecular change.”

Ardyn can’t help the disgusted look that crosses his face.

“You’ve been blinking this whole time we’ve talked, so is it safe to assume I’m stable? Molecularly?”

“For now. I shall keep surveillance on your health during future episodes. What exactly caused you to enter this state of paranoia? Bad dreams?”

He casts his eyes down to the tile floor, lips drawn together in a thin line.

“I was not dreaming. It was as if my reality was suddenly altered: turned into a place where the dead are free to mock and abuse the living.”

“You haven’t moved from your bed in days. I surmise this was your brain’s attempt at lighting a fire beneath you. A few millennia of inactivity does so dull the senses to it.”

Ardyn eyes him with suspicion.

“What form of doctor are you, anyhow? Or are you a doctor at all? I see no instruments of healing anywhere in this facility.”

Besithia looks up placidly.

“That’s because you’ve not bothered to thoroughly scout the place out. I guarantee you’ve not been to this wing of my lab, where I perform my more medically-oriented procedures. Well, consciously, that is.”

He smiles in what is supposed to be a reassuring way.

“You’ve been on my examination table plenty of times whilst in dreamland.”

Before Ardyn can argue, he stands and begins pacing, gesturing more than is appropriate with his hands. Without the red cape trailing behind him his movements are noticeably jerky.

“I am a doctor of everything! I know anatomy, physiology, and kinesiology. I’ve written hundreds of essays on the processes of the human body and how to better fulfill everyday functions. My many theses include the conservation of Newtonian and non-Newtonian bodily fluids when executing high-performance rituals, as well as the appropriate amount of each for optimal levels of health. The genetic codes of mortals are flawed at best, and I seek to use my knowledge to perfect them. To give life to a new, higher form of being, free from the complications of humanity and rich with the spoils of immortality.”

He turns to Ardyn and reaches out one hand.

“A man, once healer, turned into the very beast he was purging. No such occurrence has ever transpired and doubtless will again. Spurned and gutted by the gods you once worshipped, you find yourself tossed from wave to wave and onto an island so tragically far from home. Now, you see the magnificent creations of a future far too advanced in comparison to the past and you… what? Sit in your room and pout? It’s unbecoming, truly.”

He can feel the man’s judgment and his mouth twists in annoyance.

“Oh, do spare me your preaching. I never asked any of this, least of all from you.”

“But it’s what you’ve got, isn’t it? Dealt a losing hand and content to make the least of it? Well I forbid it, Adagium. I forbid it!”

He emphasizes this with a swift kick to a metal cart and Ardyn shoots upwards, Besithia turning to face him. His eyes are ablaze with passion.

“And what of what I want?” he asks, long strides reaching the scientist in no more than four steps. “You brought me here to this skimble-skamble palace despite the fact that I’ve been castigated for merely existing! Am I a joke to you? Or do I simply fascinate you more than your metal toys and armored men outfitted with instruments of death?”

Besithia hasn’t backed away despite the evident frustration in Ardyn’s voice and expression. He maintains eye contact and the piercing nature of his opalescent eyes makes his own burn in frustration. Still, he stares him down.

“You are my greatest discovery,” Besithia asserts, arm swinging outwards and returning to thump into his chest. “It is you who will bring our great nation back from the shadows and into the spotlight! Your genes and your plasmodia will lead the way through the battlefield and emerge victorious on the other side. It is only right that I make use of your unfortunate circumstances.”

Ardyn crowds into his space, staring down at him, teeth bared.

“And what if I refuse?”

To this, Besithia offers an unexpected response. He chuckles once, sinister smile stretching across his features. The laugh grows until it consumes his face, echoing endlessly in the small room. Ardyn backs away, disgusted.

“You’re mad.”

“And isn’t it wonderful?! To be placed in the hands of a man so strident and yet so unerring in his quest for a better future? Our people are owed their manifest destiny and I have taken up the mantle of ensuring they get it, and within my lifetime. And you are the key to it all.”

“ _ Your _ people,” he spits in response. “And I’ll have nothing more to do with this insanity. Take what you’ve already gleaned from your examinations and your contentions of me. I’ve nothing more to offer to this unrighteous cause than my discontent.”

“Oh, but heavy does the impedimenta of your calling weigh,” Besithia scolds, head moving back and forth. “Where else would you go? You cannot exit this place. And were you to try to leave I’d have you strung up from your feet and hung from my ceiling, ‘til you were begging for the release of death. But you cannot die, can you, Adagium? No, you’re a being of infinite magnitude, and the sooner you release your goals are best served through us the more charitable this existence will be toward you.”

“My goals,” he parrots. But his curiosity is near bursting limit. “To what end do I see myself, deprived of purpose and resolute to the cruel end?”

“Why, revenge, of course!”

The scientist sounds so convinced of his answer that one would think he was the one facing a meaningless oblivion.

“Revenge? Against whom?”

“Somnus, Aera, Lucis, Bahamut,” Besithia ticks off on his fingers as he recounts. “The plethora of sanctimonious rabble who helped lead you to the altar for slaughter! They hand-delivered you to this fate, knowing full well the weight of their crimes, all for a prophecy based as much in animalism as the sacrificial lamb of old. Use the good man to rid the world of scourge then discard him once he questions where it goes. I’ve a newsflash for you: the scourge does not cease to exist. It is absorbed into your body and allowed to fester there, forming a core of rot and decay until there’s nothing left to feed off of. Your once luminous, healing powers are turned into a tool for deception! And the scourge remains to haunt man.”

By the time he finishes this diatribe, Ardyn has seated himself once again on the table. He stares in disbelief at the air, the reality of these revelations trying and failing to sink in completely. He looks up at the scientist, whose face is red from exertion.

“You say… Aera knew of this? And Somnus, too?”

Besithia’s voice has lowered back to speaking volume. He takes a few steps towards Ardyn.

“Of course. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Lucis tried to conceal the whole truth from its people but were unsuccessful in scrubbing it completely from the record. The gods, unable to neither comprehend nor stop the spread of the Starscourge, bless a man with the ability to remove it. But behind this flawed method lies a far more sinister intent: doom this man to a life of eternal strife as the sickness envelopes his very soul and task him to carry it everywhere he sojourns, so that by the time a king of immense enough power to dispel the dark is born, he has been driven to lunacy in his quest to enact revenge. You, the ever-present shadow, chase this king towards the light that ultimately destroys you both. Of course, they had to provide incentive for it all. And what better incentive than to conscript their most loyal followers? The jealous brother of the Adagium, and the Oracle, blessed and cursed to bring their messages to the world of man. Convincing them was the easy part: cause the Oracle such grief as to confide in her beloved’s brother of his fate as a scapegoat. Make rise to the surface his great insecurities and sycophancy to the gods he serves so he plots to kill his brother, only to realize once it’s too late that this was their plan all along. To drive you so mad you don’t ever question your own unending thirst for vengeance. To plant the seeds of betrayal from your brother, who unknowingly slaughtered your beloved and doomed himself to a state of infamy in your mind. All this, because they feared something from beyond the stars may grow large enough to uproot them from their thrones above us mortals.”

“You,” Ardyn stutters. “You’re not making an ounce of sense. This is madness!”

“Madness, yes. But can we help it? No… this is simply the order of things as discerned from the prophecy. The Lucians cared not to unravel the fallacies and mendacity of the Astrals, but not me. I see through their lies. The plumbeous and sagacious cloud surrounding my demeanor is not by design but rather is the consequence of bearing such knowledge. But who knows? Perhaps I too am a part of their prophecy. A pawn, slated for progressing the narrative of the Chosen King and his nemesis, Adagium.”

He stands directly in front of Ardyn now, hands outwards in a grandiose gesture. Ardyn now sees him the most genuine he’s been in the months since his arrival in the facility. And the resulting terror is quickly numbed by a deep-rooted nihilism, springing from his marrow and traversing his veins like fire on kerosene. A defense mechanism, perhaps. One the faithful should never have to encounter.

“We can change that, you and I. We can throw the Lucians and those blasted gods a curveball they’ll never see coming. We can take their judgments to court and overrule the verdict.”

He pauses briefly, hands finding each of Ardyn’s shoulders and gripping them tightly, wind-chilled eyes searching endlessly through his own.

“Or we may simply give them one hell of a fight delivering their Scourge to death. Either way, we do not go gently into that good-night. We rage against the dying of the light, neglectful of how our past deeds have forked forth no lighting.”

It’s here that the mental barriers break.

Every damned word breaks the bulwark of nonsecular belief and crashes over him, the putrid truth filling his mind completely. Realization, he sees, has been there, at the edge of the bulwark, pounding on the walls from the inside, begging to be let out. Years of his nurture have protected him from his supposed menace, but now have failed and been overridden by the horrendous truth.

He has been quiet for some time, he discovers, and forces himself to look once more at the scientist before him.

“Show me,” he says quietly, hands finding Besithia’s own and smoothing up to grip his forearms. He pushes their foreheads together and breathes in harshly, body steadied by the one in front of him.

“Show me how I might rebel against this fate, however in vain it may be. Show me the errors of faith in the cruel and distant divine, and how one so cursed as me may once again find meaning in this life of pure discontent. Please.”

He feels a strong hand find its way into the hair at the back of his head and hold there, the pain a refreshing reminder of what it felt to be human.

“I will. Leave your mind open and your heart full of hate, and I shall be your guide into and through the realm of darkness eternal. Let me stand at your side, O Accursed One.”


	3. Integration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a good chapter for those of you who 1) faced information overload during the lab scene, 2) didn't play the Episode at all and missed some lore

The Chief was correct in saying that Ardyn had never been this far into the lab. They walk for a good amount of time through the winding halls of this unfamiliar territory. To Ardyn, it all looks the same. But the scientist leads the way by memory, doors opening for him without a single command issued. They pass by a window where Ardyn sees that it’s currently night. He wouldn’t have guessed it, judging how the same amount of patrol roam the halls as during the day.

“What secrets are you protecting in here?” he asks. Besithia looks back at him, somewhat surprised, as if he’d forgotten he was following his lead.

“Many things,” he answers shortly. “But most importantly, you. The Lucians attempted to kill you the first time we secured your freedom from Angelgard. I won’t allow them a second chance. Provided they can traverse the snowy peaks to this place, they will be met with full resistance.”

Ardyn thinks on this, his mind still whirring.

“Did you forget I was here just now?”

It’s a question he would’ve found rude before, but in the face of these revelations of his destiny he’s beginning to suspect if anything like that has ever mattered. Besithia seems to second these feelings.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m so accustomed to being alone I carry conversations with myself wheresoever I go.”

“And do you converse in this casual style you’re currently using, or the more magisterial tone you use in your preachings and reports?”

Besithia acknowledges him again, this time with a proud smile.

“You’ve read my writing.”

“Some of it, yes. When I found myself unable to sleep, I was greeted with volumes upon volumes of your research. It’s a wonder you and I are able to understand one another, when the lexicon of our language has evolved so drastically. Some passages I have to skip entirely if I don’t toss the entire book aside.”

Besithia taps a keypad on the wall and a door slides open, revealing an elevator. They venture inside and he issues commands to it, the machine responding and moving. In this close space, Ardyn feels claustrophobic.

Besithia reaches forward and upwards, taking a strand of Ardyn’s loose hair between his fingers.

“It will grow back with time. Do try to not lie in bed so often, lest we have to cut it all the way down.”

Ardyn remembers him mentioning this and takes a look at the length for himself. His ponytail is missing in action so the red locks spill across his face and shoulders. Where it did go past his shoulder blades it now rests just below his shoulders, still wavy. It feels stringy and he’s reminded of his lack of hygiene in recent days. He finds Besithia’s gaze. Before he can speak, the scientist does.

“Worry not that your state appals me. I’m a man of order, yes, but I do understand your predicament. Even the best and most powerful of us must traverse our valleys before mountains.”

He looks away, silently grateful for the sympathy. Besithia reaches forward again and Ardyn recoils slightly when he attempts to touch his face. His expression doesn’t change, however, so Ardyn lets him run a thumb across his stubbled cheek, though he has to stand on the tips of his toes and balance the other hand on his shoulder to reach.

“The ancient texts mentioned you having blue eyes, the color of the Cygillan under the sun. What prompted this change in physiology, I wonder?”

Ardyn feels his face scrunch in confusion. Besithia’s does the same and he removes his hand, settling back onto his heels and turning to face the elevator doors.

“You don’t have to make that face. We’ll get your affairs in order presently.”

“Are they hideous?”

The scientist turns his head to regard him. Ardyn looks past him at the panelling, his heart moved to sadness.

“Do they reflect a man, broken on the inside as he is out? A man detested by time and abhorred by providence?”

His gaze flickers to Besithia to see his expression unphased. The man is the most expressionless and yet expressive person Ardyn has ever met, undulating between the two personalities without a visible seam where they seperate.

“I see only greatness there,” he answers. The elevator grinds to a halt and the doors slide open, Besithia exiting and beckoning Ardyn forth.

“This way. I have much to show you.”

This wing of the facility is more familiar to him. It has the air of a museum, preserved specimens in glass cases, live subjects dotting cages near the walls, and a diorama of what appears to be Eos in the center of it all. On the far wall he sees a painting illuminated by a single spotlight, and another closer to them.

“Take your time to have a look around,” the scientist says, leaning on the metal railing attached to a staircase. “You’ll find the most important information on the lower level, each more interesting than the last.”

There are fewer guards in here than the other wing or hallways, probably due to Besithia’s need for space when working. They march diligently along memorized routes of the lab so Ardyn takes note of each one and where to walk as to not disturb them and their weapons. He traverses down the stairs and is met with a frightening taxidermy of a daemon.

“How do you preserve them?” he calls out to Besithia. He turns around to face him and answers.

“By providing a constant state of nighttime inside the enclosure. I did the utmost to protect the physical aspects of it with chemical preservatives, but when so much is at stake I must take every precaution.”

He steps closer to the specimen and observes it, its face frozen in a state of rabid anger. An overhead voice tells him about its origin, slightly illuminating it from above, then fades away with the light. Another larger, taller specimen stands beside it, forever encased in darkness.

He turns away from it, suddenly drawn to the open cage a few feet away.

He slowly treads the steps leading into it, shocked at the live goblin creatures scurrying around inside a smaller cage inside. He hadn’t heard Besithia approach but hears him now, outside the enclosure.

“What do you see when you look at them?”

“Pity,” he answers honestly. They don’t acknowledge him, just keep tumbling around and gnawing at the bars.

“Why do they wear such funny little hats?”

When Besithia doesn’t answer, Ardyn turns to watch his puzzled expression become contemplative as he ponders this great question.

“I’m not entirely sure. Fashion is a choice, it seems, and yet one they have failed so spectacularly at.”

Ardyn finds himself wanting one despite the scientist’s scalding words.

The enclosure suddenly becomes bright and the creatures screech, heightening in volume as their bodies erode in a shower of purple sparks. He turns to face Besithia fully and sees his hand on a switch beside the door.

“Daemons cannot withstand the sun,” he states, eyes flickering back and forth between the two specimens and Ardyn. “The very nature of their bodies doesn’t allow it. You are no exception.”

Ardyn feels his skin begin to sting and he lifts his hands to his eyes, watching them glow the same dark purple as the now-degraded goblins. He winces in pain, his whole body alight except where his clothing covers.

“However, as in most things, you are remarkable. Your cells simply regenerate quicker than they erode, leading to an endless cycle of decay and rejuvenation. You are the daemon who can feel the sunlight.”

“I wish I weren’t,” He bites out between gritted teeth, stinging turning to searing. “It feels as if I’m being impaled a thousand times over.”

Besithia nods knowingly, turning the switch to stop the simulation. Ardyn’s body no longer looks like it’s being burned in a fire and he feels immensely grateful for the coolness of the dark. Besithia beckons him out and he walks toward him, hand to his head.

“I… feel weak,” he comments quietly, steps wavering. He nearly falls but Besithia catches him, helping him to stand and walk towards a set of green leather couches. He slumps into one of them, eyes opening and closing slowly. Besithia takes him temperature with the back of his hand, which is chillingly cold.

“You’re warm, but not feverish,” he comments, two fingers wrapping around his wrist. He watches the golden bracelet on his wrist and holds this position for some time.

“And there’s no abnormalities or arrhythmia. You should feel fine in a matter of minutes.”

“What’s that there, on your arm?” he asks, eyeing the bracelet. The scientist moves it towards him and lets him watch the ticking of the hands.

“It’s a watch,” he explains. “I use it to tell the time of day. I also use it to measure the beats of your heart, to ensure your anxiety is within a healthy range.”

Ardyn looks up and they meet eyes.

“My heart?” he asks. The questions has a crack to it that even Besithia can’t ignore. He swallows once and drops his arm, looking away before answering.

“You still have a heart, yes. It beats, and has been beating, your whole life to provide you with necessary oxygen. Even in the darkness of that crypt you called home for so long, your heart was there, pounding away in your chest to keep you alive.”

Besithia won’t meet his eyes again. He picks up Ardyn’s arm and places it across his chest, palm downwards on his left pec. Beneath his shirt and skin there’s a drumming, slowly returning to normal. His head feels less fuzzy now that he’s sat down and the sensation calms him down further.

“What?” the scientist asks, playing at humor. “You thought simply because you are what you are, you wouldn’t have a heart? How else would you remain alive?”

“I thought...” he begins. “That it had been taken from me somehow. That, as payment for my crimes, I had the most human thing stripped away from me.”

They’re both quiet, Ardyn in contemplation and Besithia as a way to not make the conversation any more awkward.

“Chief… Why do you still refer to me as Adagium? You know my name is Ardyn, and yet you insist on using a derogatory term.”

“Derogatory? Adagium is a title. One worthy of your powers.”   
“What does it mean?”

He sighs, setting himself down in the space beside Ardyn.

“It’s hard to decipher the meaning from the associative words, such as cursed or unforgiven. But by my translations, it is used to refer to one of ‘great consequence.’ You will rule this world, Adagium, and build it anew on the bodies of those betrayers you once called family.”

“Is that why you’ve chosen to name me Ardyn Izunia in your reports? To distance me from the Lucis Caelum bloodline?”

“You are no longer of that traitorous name,” he answers with a venom, though not directed at Ardyn. “ It’s far too Lucian, anyhow. Izunia is reflective of your new home, your new identity! It is as to Niflheim as the mountains are to the range.”

“What does it mean? And what of Ardyn? Surely it cannot be a popular name in this day and age, given whom it would be associated with. I should cover my true identity more thoroughly than a change of surname.”

“Ardyn is fine,” the scientist insists. “You have been all but stricken from history. There should be no negative associations with them name, besides its archaic origin. Izunia, however, is as new as the pup from the womb. It means ‘son of power’ and has connotations within the, surprisingly, noble nobility of this great empire. In fact, it was the name of a former emperor, though far enough back for all who knew him to be dead or dying. You have been carved out a place perfectly in the middle, and no one we choose not to know will be any the wiser to your nefarious nature.”

For the first time a long time, Ardyn feels an honest to goodness smile spread across his face.

“You really are a smart man, Besithia.”

“A high compliment from a supreme being as yourself.”

The Chief uncrosses his legs and places his hands on his knees.

“If we are to establish names, however, I insist you call me Chief Besithia, lest the soldiers believe we’ve formed a personal bond or what have you.”

“Have we not?” Ardyn asks, the smile immoveable. “You’ve given me my name. Cared for me as your own. And I have supplied you with invaluable insight in the daemons. To think that we are any less than brothers would be a mockery of our efforts together these past months and weeks.”

“What would you call me, then? No superfluous nicknames,” Besithia adds with an assertive gesture.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

He thinks on this, looking away then back at the man beside him.

“How about a compromise? I call you Chief Besithia in the company of others, but when we are alone, I shall call you by your first name. Reasonable enough?”

“Hmm,” he hums in thought, a hand rubbing his chin. Finally, he answers Ardyn, hand falling back to his lap. “Very well. I see no harm in it. You may call me Verstael.”

“Hello, Verstael,” Ardyn says, voice dropping an octave. “My name is Ardyn. Ardyn Izunia.”

“What a fine name, indeed,” the scientist responds, an approving laugh bubbling up from his throat. They laugh together for a moment, the sound fading back into their chests as the noises of the lab’s machines become apparent. Besithia reaches over and takes Ardyn’s wrist once more, timing his heart to the second hand of his watch. He drops both of their arms.

“If you’re well, we can continue the tour,” he says, standing and making an exit for Ardyn. Ardyn stands and follows his lead, circling the large replica of Eos in the middle of the room.

“Since the days of the founding of Lucis and Niflheim, we’ve discovered much of the origin of our star,” the scientist begins, turning on a light switch beside the table. This light isn’t like the one in the goblin cage: it softly illuminates parts of the topographic map in front of them.

“I envy you,” he says, and Ardyn looks up from the map to see him staring with wonder.

“A human life is too short to truly understand all there is about the world.”

He looks back down, bringing up a hologram of the Earth.

“Our star is approximately 4.5 billion years old,” he says, watching the digital image spin slowly. As he speaks, he turns more symbols on a screen and dials beside them to illustrate his points. “The six protector gods came to Eos around the era of the Solheim civilization, a precursor to our own. Though human remains predating this have been found in the Piztala region, we mortals were never combined into a recognizable species until the founding of Solheim. Hunter-gatherers and the like. Humanity was first gifted with fire as these nomadic peoples, then brought the technology with them as they migrated across the globe. Ifrit, the Infernian, alighted this to the man who would sit the throne of Solheim as its first king.”

A large diorama of a mechanical city came into view, with long stretches of roads filling the skies and connecting various tall buildings.

“Solheim was a quickly-growing civilization, beginning as a kingdom, and expanding its territories until it became an entire civilization. Their technology was vital to what we know today in terms of agriculture and medicine, but much is it remains lost, to my immense frustration.”

He pauses, watching Ardyn walk the perimeter of the map.

“Ruins of these magnificent people can still be found in the Cleigne and Duscae regions of what is now Lucis, and their archaeologists constantly update the world with new discoveries.”

“I recall reading of these people as a child,” Ardyn says, stopping to examine the map. “They were destroyed by the gods for their atheism and blasphemous practices.”

“That is hearsay, I’m afraid,” Besithia says, joining him to gaze across the geography of their world. “No evidence has ever been brought forth to validate these claims, unlike the rest of the information presented here. What they told you was merely another instrument to get you to behave as they deemed was correct.”

Ardyn meets his eyes and he shrugs.

“Children will go to bed if they’re told the gods will smite them for not sleeping.”

He looks away and down, teeth finding his inner cheek. Besithia continues.

“In these regions, there stretches a crevasse known as Taelpar Crag. This is believed to be where the War of the Astrals took place, and where many central defensive posts and markets of Solheim were destroyed in the ensuing fires. Areas not completely obliterated over time or destroyed for modern construction point to this as fact. The Infernian grew disillusioned with humanity and attempted to destroy what he helped grow, but he met resistance from the other five Astrals. Unable to surpass their combined might, he was rendered unconscious and interred atop the Rock of Ravatogh, leading to its now fiery nature. With the war over and much of their vitality drained, the remaining five of the Hexatheon retreated to different parts of Eos to rest and restore their strength. Shiva, the goddess of ice, and most merciful of them, is said to reside in the Ghorovas Rift here in Niflheim.”

Besithia stops changing the holograms to usher in an aside.

“This region has historically never felt this kind of a freeze. Evidence shows that since after, and only after, the War of the Astrals, the Ghorovas Rift and surrounding areas receive several hundred feet of snowfall a year, gradually growing as time goes on. Expeditions to find the slumbering Glacian have yet to provide anything of worth, but yet we must venture forth.”

He brings up another image and continues.

“The god Titan can still be seen if one sojourns deep into the Disc of Cauthess in Duscae but is, as of now, protected under the Lucian government. He protected Eos from extinction by preventing a catastrophic meteor from landing and wiping out all life and filling the sky with their ashes. As for the Leviathan, she resides far below the continent of Accordo, where no man may ever travel and hope to return, remembered only by the ancient Altar of the Tidemother which the city of Altissia has been built around. Niflheim has since gained control of this continent and watery city and keeps the Altar protected by constant surveillance, if the need to summon her arises.”

Ardyn is able to keep much of this tucked away in his mind for future use.

“What of the Fulgurian? And the Draconian?”

“Ramuh used his power to seal himself away in Fociaugh Hollow, also located in Duscae. As for the Draconian, no records have been found which tell of his whereabouts. Some theorize he returned to the plane of the Astrals, where others say he remains on Eos in a dimension beyond our own. Irregardless, neither his physical body nor his spiritual influence have been noticed in the world since the War.”

“However, we know that to be untrue, don’t we?”

Ardyn knows he’s looking at him but doesn’t look back. After a moment, the projections change again before him.

“Some 2,000 years ago, the blade god, Bahamut, granted Somnus Lucis Caelum two gifts: a ring, and a stone, both of immense power. He used these gifts to found the Kingdom of Lucis, which has flourished despite the ever-present Starscourge salting the land. As of today, Mors Lucis Caelum sits the throne as its 112th monarch.”

“So that is who we must face…” Ardyn thinks, gazing upon a black and white image of the man.

“No monarch has yet to be chosen by the Crystal as the True King, said to wield powers capable of rendering the Scourge immobile and destroying it for good. However, I theorize that the time is soon. The awakening of Adagium supports this. And with Mors’ son, Regis, having not been chosen, it’s unlikely he will ever be, thus the mantle falls to either the 114th or 115th in-line to the throne. Of this I am certain.”

“Are you unable to pin down the exact heir?” Ardyn asks. “If we knew this, we could kill him as an infant. In fact, why don’t we simply invade Lucis and dispatch of any future heirs right now?”

“It’s not that simple,” Verstael answers hesitantly. “As much as I would enjoy ripping the kingdom from their hands, we must play politics and outwit them as in a game of chess. It is the only way to secure a future for the Empire while claiming what is ours.”

“Chess?” Ardyn repeats, delight evident in his voice.

“That is a game I am highly familiar with.”

“Then you will be an excellent ally in the war against Lucis. They know their pieces and the board very well, but we have a few new tricks, don’t we?”

“Oh yes,” he answers. “We know things which the world has never seen.”

“And you can see much more, once I reveal what I have in store for you next. But for now, some more history.”

He touches a screen and the images go away, revealing just the map.

“As of now, the Empire of Niflheim consists of this continent, where we stand,” he says, pointing to a large, icy area. “As well as Accordo. We have germinal plans to move for Tenebrae in the North. They enjoy close ties to the Lucians and thus we must take control of this area before moving to the main continent.”

“Why does Niflheim want to control Lucis?” Ardyn asks. Verstael gestures with both of his hands, spreading them across the map.

“It is as I said: we have a manifest destiny to control Eos, from east to west. The Lucians have met our rule with antagony, so we have thrust it back at them twofold. At present, however, we are in a stalemate. The magical wall Lucis has erected keeps our infantry at bay and renders any future aerial campaigns useless. We know that King Mors uses the power of the Ring of the Lucii and the Crystal, as well as new technology we’ve been unable to crack, to sustain the New Wall. It would seem providence is on their side.”

“You say that this civilization of Solheim possessed technological wonders. Have you yet to acquire any of them?”

“Yes, in fact, though the results are still under much scrutiny,” he answers. “But that is where you come in. With the ability to daemonify anything you wish, we may yet have much advancement towards the goal of conquering Lucis, something which serves both our purposes and ushers in a new era of civilization. I’m certain daemons hold the key to this new future.”

“So, you seek to rebuild Solheim in these modern times?” he asks. He can’t help but feel sickened at the thought, the vestiges of his upbringing lingering in his thoughts.

“To surpass them,” the scientist answers. He shuts off the light displays and beckons Ardyn with a hand.

“Take a look at one of my first acquisitions. It’s something you may find very enlightening.”

He tunes back into their environment and sees where Verstael points. He follows the direction and sees one of the paintings he noticed earlier hanging in a corner of the lab, illuminated by several bright lights. Although he’s never seen it before, the meanings are almost entirely clear to him.

“How old is this…?” he asks. The scientist joins him in front of the ancient golden mural.

“Approximately 400 to 600 years. Quite a long while since you were interred, but then again the legend of Adagium has only recently been pulled from the memories of Lucis. It depicts the Chosen King vanquishing the Accursed One and his legions of daemons, supported by the Astrals on the flanks and the kings of yore in the foreground. Above them stands--”

“The Oracle,” Ardyn interjects. He can feel Verstael’s eyes on him.

“You knew her, yes? Aera Mils Fleuret, the first Oracle, blessed to bring the gods’ words to mankind. It was she and your brother who played right into Bahamut’s hands and led to your being here today.”

“We were to be wed,” he responds, swallowing involuntarily. The painting, although done many years after she would have died, looks exactly like her. The purity and beauty of the subject can’t be lost on the viewer. He glances past the kings, past the Astrals, and to the subject of damnation. Adagium, the Scourge monster, bent on bringing humanity to its knees.

“You’ll never make her less radiant to me,” Ardyn states quietly. He turns to Verstael, a quiet kind of stubborness.

“Make Somnus the villain, and Bahamut, too. Their intentions toward me are clear now. But Aera only did what she believed to be just. If she knew of my fate, she only intended to help me. If not, who am I to blame the innocent for someone else’s transgressions?”

Verstael smiles, then, and it hits Ardyn all wrong.

“You say that, and yet I thought we were here to destroy the Chosen King. If you can’t blame an innocent for the crimes of their forebears, how can you justly kill this man if he’s done you no wrong?”

Ardyn is silent, then, several protests forming on his lips but none carrying wait. Finally, he speaks up, eyes stinging.

“I loved her.”

Where there was sympathy before, there is none now.

“And yet either way one looks upon it, she betrayed you. Helped to exile you from your home and your calling. If Somnus did not lock you away, she surely would have seen it done. It’s by the will of the gods that the Oracle works, after all.”

He blinks away the moisture from his eyes, trying to keep his emotions at bay.

“Does the Oracle still live? Her descendants, of course.”

“As the sons and daughters of Lucis Caelum still remain, so do the children of House Fleuret. Along which way the name was changed from Mils Fleuret to Nox Fleuret we know not, as the Oracle’s lineage is a well-protected trove of secrets. But the current Oracle is close friends with Mors Lucis Caelum and his son, along with her young daughter, Sylva. She would make a powerful ally if she could be persuaded to our side of the conflict, but alas, their houses have been tied for millennia.”

“Aera never had children,” Ardyn states, unsure of what he means to say.

“Then perhaps the name was changed earlier than we previously thought. If Aera, the first Oracle, had no children with her f iancé, then perhaps she remarried later in life.”

“No!” Ardyn cries out. This outburst shocks Verstael into taking a few steps back.

“Somnus. Killed. Her. Slayed her right in front of my eyes before taking me down, too! She tried to protect me from his wrath and was murdered in cold blood for it!”

He can feel the sweat pouring down his neck as his chest heaves. A few guards have gathered around Verstael with their weapons up but he signals for them to lower them.

“Enough!” he calls out. They back away and resume their patrol with a more watchful eye. Ardyn’s breathing has returned to normal but his mind is still alight with pain. Verstael faces him, calm and collected.

“Perhaps she had brothers or sisters who bore children after she had perished and you had been locked away. You cannot refute this fact as you were not present. Either way, the Oracle’s blood lives on to this day as they are the only ones who may commune with the gods. We know they aren’t making fools of us.”

He’s still sensitive to the topic, eyes locked on the ground, so Verstael turns and begins walking away.

“Take time to collect yourself. I shall return in a moment’s time.”

He hears a metallic door open and close, and then he’s all alone in the lab.

He makes his way back to the green couches and sits with his head between his knees, fingers pulling through his hair. He rocks back and forth in his seat, whispering to himself.

“This isn’t real,” he repeats, eyes squeezed shut. “I will wake up ‘neath a fig tree and all my sins be false visions of a sickly mind. I seek guidance for my illness and find peace once again at the hands of the gods. This isn’t real. I will wake up ‘neath a fig tree…”

Somewhere after several repetitions of this prayer, Ardyn comes to and realizes nobody is in the lab with him. All the lights are off and the guards are gone. It is completely silent. A ringing begins in his ears, soft and far away, and grows louder with each passing moment. When it becomes unbearable he can only cover his ears and beg for mercy but his protestations are drowned out by the sound. He prys his eyes open and searches frantically for something to gogue his eardrums with if only to make the sound stop. He throws chairs, documents, small machines in search of something sharp but to no avail. He notices something on his palms and turns them upwards. A circle is painted on each of them, a dripping, black substance caked on thick. He touches a finger to one side, coming away with an inky mess. When he tries to wipe it away it only spreads across his clothing, darkening it with a streak of sick. He furious scrapes his palms against his shirt but it begins to cling to his skin, soaking wet with the blackness. In the shining metal of a cabinet he sees himself, skin coal-grey and dripping the same black filth. His sclera are pitch black and veins as dark as the night fester beneath his skin. The ringing reaches a climax as he turns to where the painting from earlier should be. Instead it is in tatters on the ground, the frame broken to pieces. He bumbles toward it and pulls the decaying canvas up from the ground. Underneath the fabric lies the broken, bloody body of Aera, her white clothes stained by a blossoming red lake and her skin unearthly white. Ardyn drops to his knees and calls for her but feels eyes upon him. He turns and sees Somnus there, wielding his blade.

His mouth moves but no words come out. The ringing in Ardyn’s ears covers it all up and he yells, screams for any kind of help for Aera. Somnus doesn’t hear him, however, and he makes for Ardyn. He lifts his weapon high into the air before slashing downwards at him. Ardyn had instinctively held his arms before him, so when he opens his eyes and there’s no pain, no dripping of black or red from his open wounds, he cannot comprehend what’s happened.

Before him Aera kneels, facing Somnus. His blade had lodged in her shoulder and he uses a foot to pull it loose. Her skin is still as white as death when she collapses to the ground, a broken ceramic cup. The ringing is gone and the silence is returned, deafening all the same.

He takes her in his arms, her corpse a lifeless thing before him. The wound made by Somnus doesn’t bleed, but when he touches it, it spurts forth black sickness that covers his face and exposed skin. He wipes the putrid mess from his eyes and attempts to cover the gash, both hands now bathed in the darkness. Her body glows purple and begins to disintegrate as he had done in Verstael’s chamber, but it does not regenerate. Instead it disappears in a shower of sparks and leaves him cold and sticky, shaking like a leaf in the wind. A voice breaks through the silence.

“You killed her yourself, you know.”

He turns his head slowly and looks up at the avatar of Somnus, face disapproving down to his cold, piercing eyes.

“It’s your fault that woman was killed. I hope you understand that.”

“No, Somnus…”

He shakily gets to his knees, faltering several times before standing straight before his brother.

“It was you who murdered her.”

He flexes his palm and his own blade appears, the familiar twing of magic pulling at his soul.

“And I will never forgive you.”

His attack is fast and ruthless. But when it hits Somnus he doesn’t scream. Instead his vision blurs and he’s greeted by the painting in Verstael’s lab, one massive tear streaked across the canvas. It has been cut and peels away where the king and his men smite the Fallen daemons, folding into itself. The Astrals have had their bodies severed as well, darkness lying behind the ruined canvas.

“What have you done?!” he hears Verstael demand. He turns from the painting to see the scientist stomping toward him, dressed in full military regalia.

“I leave you for ten minutes and you’ve gone and destroyed part of my research!”

Ardyn faces the canvas once more to survey the damage. He takes in the straight, clean cut along its length and gazes upon his own right hand, which holds the Rakshasa blade with a firm grip. He dismisses it back into the Armiger, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders before facing the scientist once again.

“My apologies, Chief Besithia. It appears I’ve been once again compromised.”

He offers his hand and notices that it has no oozing marks.

“Care to see if I’m still alive?”

Verstael scoffs and shoves past him to the painting. He snaps his fingers and calls several guards to their location.

“Take this down and have it restored. Have the other one relocated until I say so.”

They nod in compliance and move to unhinge the great artwork from the wall. Verstael returns to stand before Ardyn, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn.

“It appears you’re unfit to be left alone. Shall I carry you on my hip like a babysitter?”

Ardyn, meanwhile, is staring at his watch.

“I’m alright,” he says under his breath.

“What?”

He looks up, eyes finding Besithia’s. His teeth are bared but Ardyn simply smiles.

“Your watch tells me that I’m alright. I timed it.”

Verstael sees that he’s holding his own wrist. He lifts one hand and places it to his forehead, a look of contemplation.

“Oh dear. My head feels rather hot. Perhaps I have become feverish.”

Reluctantly, Verstael judges for himself the temperature of Ardyn’s forehead. He’s flushed and his breathing is hoarse. The scientist grunts.

“Perhaps so. I’ll take you back to your room and we can resume another time. Come along.”

He makes to exit the room and beckons Ardyn after him with a short wave. He obliges and saunters behind him, vision wobbly. When they reach the top of the stairs, Ardyn collapses onto the ground, Verstael’s agitated voice the last thing he hears before losing all consciousness.


	4. A Quiet Kind of Violence

The room is entirely dark when he awakens.

Ardyn sits up groggily, shaking the fitful sleep away and rubbing his eyes. He feels sticky with sweat and the events of yesterday (he assumes) are a blur. They slowly come back into view in his mind’s eye, piecing themselves into a linear narrative. He swings his legs off the side of his bed and is met with a fierce headache filling his temples and pulsating all around his brain. He buries his head in his hands and lets out a groan, waves of nausea coming and going with the stabbing.

When the worst of the feelings pass he stands, unbalanced at first, and stumbles out the door. The air out here is much less cloyed but he reasons, when he stops outside the window in view of the mountains, that he needs something more fresh. Oxygen less circulated and far more free to clear his head. So he goes in search of an exit to the snowy outside, barefoot and dragging his pile of limbs.

All the halls still look the same, but where doors didn’t budge before him in days past, they open now when he places his palm on the outside panel. He finds more lab spaces, storage closets, and areas of the facility Verstael has never taken him but don’t interest him anyway. His breathing has gone ragged and by the time he collapses against a vent, cheek pressed to the cool grate, he’s too tired to move anywhere.

The sound of metal on metal hits his ears and he cracks his eyes open as far as they’ll go. He sees the bottom of Verstael’s uniform and then the man’s face when he squats down to eye level.

“It took some time before your prints could be registered to the doors. Did you have fun exploring?”

He blinks once slowly, eyelids sticking.

“Take me outside…”

The scientist’s eyebrows raise in tandem but he doesn’t respond. He lifts a hand and signals before standing, and suddenly Ardyn is lifted upwards by two pairs of hands under his shoulders. He feels coldness seep through his clothes and reasons he’s being carted away by guards, their faces blanketed by unfeeling masks.

He does his best to not lag behind but his legs feel weak. Twice they have to stop while he rests but the four-man retinue makes it to a section that requires Verstael to input a series of passwords into a panel. A door behind them closes and the sound of rushing oxygen meets his ears when the one in front opens. A blast of cold night air hits him and blows his hair all around, his eyes widening. Verstael beckons the guards forth and they trench out into the snowy terrace where they abandon their grips on Ardyn and retreat back behind the door. It snaps shut and he falls to his knees, powder crunching beneath his weight and breath hanging in frozen crystals in the air.

“It’s glorious,” he whispers, lips turning blue from the freezing temperatures already. But his body feels far less heavy, the crisp pain of outside air tearing into his lungs. His sweat has either been blown away by the wind or frozen to his skin, and he hugs himself in a sudden search for warmth. Verstael’s cheeks and ears are red and wind-chaffed already, matching the felt of his cape. Ardyn wants to crawl inside of it and take refuge but he feels rooted to the spot.

“Tell me,” Verstael breathes, gazing out across the seemingly endless white terrain. “What would be your hamartia? You’re certainly no hero in this story-- more a fallen creature of grace-- but what do you see being your potential downfall at the hands of our common enemy?”

Ardyn looks up at him, neck stiffened to near stillness.

“What of yourself?” he asks instead. The scientist, not nearly as phased by the blasting chill, squats down in front of him, blocking some of the wind.

“Time. Without enough time all my research will fall to ruin. The longer I take to find answers, the further I am from my goals. The Emperor understands this and thus I am ushered to productivity always.”

“The Emperor…?”

He can hardly feel anything anymore. Verstael yells some order and the guards come marching out again, plucking Ardyn from the snow and bringing him back inside. They stumble for what feels like ages, the facility passing in a chilled blur, until he’s sitting in a tiled area, the sound of water rushing all around him.

The chill hangs in his bones for an inordinate amount of time. Hot, sticky steam brings him to his senses, however, and he focuses his vision where a reservoir of hot water has been set out before him.

“This is…?” he asks to the air. He looks down and sees that he’s been undressed from the lab’s rags and wears a towel around his waist. Movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention and he starts, amber eyes finding Verstael’s.

“I assume you know what a bath is?” he asks, pointing to the water. “Your excursion into the elements may have left you vulnerable to illness, so now is as good a time as any to have you cleaned.”

He turns back to the reservoir, suddenly aching desperately for it. He stands unsteadily, one hand on the towel.

“Will you be here whilst I bathe?” he asks quietly.

“Of course. I can’t have you nodding off and drowning, can I? That would be the least dignified end one could imagine for the great Adagium.”

He turns to face the scientist fully, lips twisted in spite. He lets the towel drop unceremoniously to the ground and steps out of it.

“I’ve told you. It’s Ardyn.”

Verstael smirks but doesn’t respond. Ardyn turns and steps into the water, wanting to recoil when his foot hits the surface. But he presses on, sinking into the tub and marvelling at how wonderful it turns the more he submerges his limbs. He finally sits on his bottom, knees arched up to fit, and settles in, water lapping at his collarbone. He spies his hair floating beside him, bright against the plain color of the tub.

His eyes close involuntarily but he doesn’t sleep, just rests. The aching in his joints has subsided and been replaced by a weightlessness, muscles completely relaxed. He hears the scraping of something on tile and peaks, seeing the scientist seat himself on a stool beside him.

“Do you intend to watch me the whole time?” he asks wearily. He doesn’t feel like attempting to cover himself. Verstael shrugs.

“You’re my main project. What else should I be doing besides observing your every move?”

Ardyn rolls his eyes not so subtly and cups his hands, splashing water on his face and running a damp hand atop his head.

“At least make yourself useful and attempt to make sense of this for me.”

He disentangles his fingers from his hair and settles back against the tile, mapping Verstael’s movements with his ears. He hears the rustle of fabric as he seemingly rolls his sleeves up and adjusts his trousers to be seated one more behind Ardyn. This, he could get used to. The scientist is eager to know every nook and cranny of his existence so Ardyn has him under his thumb, doing his bidding as much as working as his partner.

Strong hands motion him to sit up straighter so he does, uncaring if his shoulders are hunched. Warm water pours over his hair and seeps onto his scalp, rivulets running down his exposed skin.

“You have scars, you know,” Verstael says after a moment. Something audibly clicks and Ardyn feels hands lathering soap into his hair. He hums in agreement.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You’ll find your body impervious to most attacks. However, after being suspended by chains for more than two millennia, these are wounds even the Scourge cannot heal.”

He opens his eyes and observes his hands. Sure enough, stripped of any clothing or other distraction, he sees dark pink scars wrapping around his wrists. Further ahead at his feet, submerged under water, he sees his ankles bear similar marks. He lets his hands dip below the water and focuses on the nails massaging his scalp.

“You appear to be speaking more of my soul,” he comments. “Those marks are inconsequential.”

There’s a low rumble of laughter behind him and the hands in his hair tilt his head sideways, working behind his ear and at the nape of his neck.

“I should like to hear you say that once you glance the scars from the hooks.”

He’s confused for a moment before it hits him. Ah, yes. The hooks.

“I take it you’ve had plenty of time to catalogue those,” he responds. “Have you found a way to reverse their damage?”

“Would I care to devote resources to that?” the scientist scoffs. “My focus lies within the more pressing undiscovered country, not healing old wounds. Those serve to remind you of your purpose and I’d have them left there to do their job.”

Ardyn tsks, head obediently following Verstael’s instructions. Water cascades down his shoulders and fills the clear water below with milky swirls, all the years of imprisonment following. Verstael handles his hair with a practiced hand, wringing it free of water in chunks. Ardyn trails fingers up one of his wrists, following the blue veins mapped out there.

“You have the hands of a working man,” he states, talking without reason now. “Surely you have scars borne from the whips and scorns of time yourself?”

He leans his head backwards to watch Verstael upside-down. His knees are on either side of the tub and he’s working some other, softer soap into the ends of his hair, turned dark violet from the water. It smells of cedarwood and the forests in fall. His own light hair has fallen from its pristine position and sits somewhat frizzy from the humidity. Ardyn lets his fingers leave where they’ve traced to Verstael’s elbow, leaving a streak of moisture. Ever the scientist, Verstael is concentrated on his task and doesn’t meet his eyes back.

“I do, but not from battle or imprisonment. My life has been spent in laboratories and hospitals, the sting of scalpels and the prick of needles my weapons against unintelligence. Were you to believe the astrologers, these imperfections across my face are scars from a past life, supposedly from one who got too close to the fire.”

He instructs Ardyn to submerge his head underwater so he does, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly, spent breath bubbling to the surface. He opens his eyes and blinks, the movement of waves distorting the scientist’s face. He breaches the the surface and takes a gulp of air, hands instinctively rubbing the water from his eyelashes. When he regains sight he disobeys Verstael’s instructions to remain seated, instead rising to kneel and facing him. He pushes the sopping wet locks from his face and behind his ears, the man clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Your hair isn’t rinsed. It will be sticky if you don’t wash all the conditioner out.”

“Bother that,” Ardyn says, pushing his lines. “It’s time for me to wash up elsewhere.”

The situation is quite ridiculous for anyone’s standards. Two grown men, one in his thirties and the other as well plus 2,000, bickering while one of them is completely naked. He gets the reaction he was hoping for: a scrunched nose and a noise of revulsion.

“I can wash your hair but the rest is up to you,” he replies, toweling off his forearms. Ardyn gives him a sly smile.

“Did I ask to be bathed like a child? I’m merely suggesting you turn around if the sight of another man’s body displeases you.”

His face goes red and he swivels around on his stool furiously. If he were any more embarrassed, Ardyn would be able to see smoke from his nostrils.

He finds a sponge on the side of the tub and lathers it with soap, running it over his chest and abdomen. The only sound between them is the splash over water as he moves to clean the rest of his body.

“You’re not fooling me,” Verstael says suddenly, back to him. “Your insinuation was very clear and I don’t appreciate being toyed with.”

“Why on earth would I strive to jockey you?” he responds, lifting an arm into the air. Verstael scoffs indignantly.

“I may not be able to see inside that head of yours but your penchant for manipulation is becoming ever more apparent. I suggest you wield it carefully.”

He acquiesces, sitting back down and washing his legs.

“For someone not averse to unclothing a man whilst he sleeps, you seem to have a complaint about it when he’s conscious.”

Ardyn hears him shift defensively.

“You say that as if I’ve violated you.”

“Perhaps you have. Have I ever been asked my opinion on the matter?”

Verstael mutters something to the lines of “insufferable” under his breath, then speaks at full volume.

“Are you quite finished? The hour is late and I yearn for sleep.”

“Allow me another minute. What was it you said about finishing my hair?”

He stands slowly, grunting from the effort. He no longer feels feverish but his head pulses slightly with pain. On a small table beside the tub lies a pair of scissors, plain and silver. He eyes them, plucking them from the stand and holding them in one hand. He rests his weight on the edge of the tub and brings them to his hair, snipping quietly at the wet strands hanging there.

“Tell me, how did you come about to this line of work?” he asks nonchalantly. Verstael doesn’t move, just breathes in before speaking.

“I was recruited out of university to test for the nation’s aptitude exam. After passing, I was transferred to Gralea and began training to work in the city’s major hospital. I was there in my fifth year as a surgeon when the Emperor’s mother fell ill and had to have a transplant. There were no available donors and I had just perfected my research into liver-spleen adaptation. The procedure was experimental, as I’d had no human subjects to test it on, but I was promised a promotion to the Empire’s facilities if I performed to their satisfaction. Needless to say, I did more than such and have since worked here with a... modicum of privacy.”

“Does she still live to this day? Surely such handiwork would last but a few years, given the body’s inclination for decay.”

“She passed away and was buried not but a few weeks ago. I was but a lad at the time so the surgery held her for over a decade more than she’d been given. Had any other bastard been in there that day I reason they would’ve lost their head for failing to save her life. After all, they would have been dealing with her liver and that wasn’t the issue.”

Ardyn feels his eyebrows crease. “What was it, then?”

“Internal bleeding. The doctors who examined her initially failed to catch this and instead issued a misdiagnoses. When under my knife I noticed the root of her illness immediately and adapted my procedure as such. To this day it remains a bitter point of contention for me, that I was called for my research and yet it proved useless in what was to be the perfect environment. I’ve since used it a number of times in my experiments, but the hole of that day remains.”

Ardyn sets the scissors aside and rises from the tub completely, stepping onto a mat. Verstael points to a rack with his towel without a word, and Ardyn secures it around his waist once more. He grabs a second one and begins drying his hair, unused to its new length. As soon as he pulls it away from his face is when Verstael stands and faces him, expression becoming immediately confused. He glances at the scissors, single strands hanging from the blades, and the red pile beside the draining tub. The shock wears off into an expression of tired acceptance and he strides past him to the exit.

“Go and change before I make you clean this mess in only a towel.”


	5. Fates Aligned

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes he’s been waiting for Adagium and the man still has not surfaced.

After the incident in the washroom, Verstael had decided to entrust a  _ modicum of privacy _ to him, reading between the lines of his evolving behavior. This may have been a mistake, he thinks, as he taps his pen furiously on his clipboard. He’s written and rewritten all the possible observations from the past hour and has made audio recordings of them for the archive. But his patience is running very thin.

Just as he’s nearly chewed the cap of his instrument in two pieces, he hears a voice from behind the door.

“Oh, Chief!”

It’s playful in a way that taunts him so he enters the area already peeved. Adagium is presenting himself in full view of the entrance, embroidered clothing pieced together along his body. He’s chosen what can simply be described as grandiloquent. Were his emerging personality able to be anthropomorphized, it would be in the form of his present ensemble, all layers and extraneous additions. Somehow from the boxes of clothing, untouched for no more than a few years, he’s fashioned together something so reminiscent of eras long since passed. The thing he notices almost immediately is the propensity for black. It rings heavily Lucian to him, and although his undershirt and parts of his vest are the unique shade of the Aldercapt’s white, his trousers and thick, ankle-length jacket are unmistakably Lucis Caelum. Verstael feels disapproval creep into his manner.

“Not to your liking?” he asks, feigning a pout. He lifts a tail of his coat for emphasis.

“And I here I thought to flatter you with these inspired patterns. But, if it’s too much…”

He hooks his thumbs into the lapels of the coat and pulls it from his shoulders, letting it slide off of his arms into a pile. The collar of his cream shirt falls open to reveal a section of his chest, spatterings of dark hair peeking out. He glances back upwards and catches the man’s eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, head downwards.

“I’ll just remove the rest of this, shall I?”

His fingers find the straps securing his vest and take hold of the silver buckles at their ends, picking them apart with slow purposefulness. It begins to drift aside and the undershirt falls away too. Verstael crosses the room and hooks his hands around the vest, smoothing down his shirt before refastening the straps.

“This will do just fine,” he bites, pointedly avoiding eye contact. He kneels down and scoops up the ridiculous coat from the floor, fanangling it into place before swinging it back around Adagium’s shoulders.

“And the coat as well. Not only will the layers protect you from the cold but, most importantly, the sun.”

He’s taken hold of the lapels again and is sliding his arms into the sleeves, eyes mocking. Verstael grabs the seams and straightens them with a tug, the man’s body moving slightly forward with it. He’s radiating heat through the fabric already and it battles with the ever-present chill of his own hands until he pulls away. Then, they drive out the warmth and resume their natural temperature. He stands back to observe his work and does a quick look around the room. Articles have been meticulously judged and discarded back into boxes, some hanging from the sides and others draped across the sparse furniture. He trounces past the figure before him and grabs the first scarf he sees and the only cap from the immediate area, returning to where he stood before. He has to jump to loop the scarf properly around his neck-- were the man only four inches taller he would have a foot on Verstael-- and smacks his hand away when he attempts to help. He conceals the edges underneath the coat and tastefully lets the front of the red fabric peek from beneath the shirt’s collar. He plants a hand on Ardyn’s shoulder and implores him lean over, reaching with the tips of his toes to slap a hat on the top of his head.

“There,” he states, a conclusiveness to his tone. “Now you have optimal coverage from the elements.”

Ardyn twists and observes himself, mouth pursing in response.

“Is the scarf necessary? I understand the fedora…”

He plucks it from his head, flips it round once, and replaces it before finishing his sentence.

“Which is quite charming.”

“I’m not going to argue the semantics of fashion with you. Do levy a bit of trust my way?”

Ardyn turns his gaze from observing his backside and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you playing funny with me?”

He feels his face drop.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem to fancy yourself an expert on haberdashery.”

“Your point, please.”

A shrug.

“I simply wouldn’t deem you the man for advice, were one seeking it.”

He feels his eyelid twitch in irritation. It’s fleeting, but highly annoying while it lasts.

“If you’re satisfied with your choices, I’d like to resume the tour. I have one last, very important section to show you.”

He’s picking at his trousers and not at all paying attention.

“Do you have a tailor? These will positively drag the floor in this state.”

Verstael sighs, impatience growing evident.

“Choose another pair. We’ve no time for such trivialities.”

Ardyn wags a finger at him.

“Ah ah ah, the clothes make the man. As a leading expert on all things fashion you should know this.”

Another twitch.

Verstael twirls and snatches a hanging pair of trousers from a rack and lobs them at the man. When Ardyn catches them with little effort and observes them, the scientist crosses his arms expectantly.

“I didn’t much like these,” he comments, face discerning.

“Do they fit?”

Ardyn sighs.

“Indeed. Just please have this pair sent away to a tailor. For me?”

He nods once, desperate to end the conversation. Ardyn waves a hand to shoo him away.

 

“I found something most interesting atop the Rock of Ravatogh.”

Verstael makes small, one-sided conversation on the way through the lab with the map. Ardyn notes the blank walls where portraits of Angelgard and the Banishing of Adagium once hung. If he tunes out the scientist enough he can focus on how, through their helmets, the guards eye him closely. They surely haven’t forgotten his earlier outburst. He can’t help it-- a sly smile slides across his features as he swaggers past them, suddenly ten feet tall. One guard hesitates, stumbles in his steps, body stiff as a board. It’s such a minute reaction but one that gives him, interestingly enough, a sense of pride. It was him who inspired that fear.

“Are you listening?” Verstael asks, not stopping or turning around. Ardyn smiles at the back of his head.

“Indeed, Chief. I am all ears.”

“If this experiment succeeds, you could learn years of history. Things which no mere mortal could conceive of. All of that forbidden knowledge, tucked away into that funny red head of yours.”

“If I were to kill you, what would I ascertain from your memories?”

Verstael stops at the top of a descending stairwell, boots clinking against the metal grating below as he finally faces Ardyn.

“And why would you do that?” he bites out. A piece of gelled hair falls down onto his forehead and Ardyn smoothes it back into place, hand petting where it lies on the top of Verstael’s head. He is nonplussed about the motion but his eyes watch suspiciously. Ardyn hums in thought.

“Would I see your medical university? The hospital you graced with your prodigal knowledge? The red and open guts of one of the most powerful women in all of Niflheim as you dig your gloved paws inside and sever flesh from bone?”

He’s still stroking Verstael’s head, eyes far away.

“Would I feel your anguish at the sight of her misdiagnoses, and the resulting crush of ego? What would follow then, I wonder? Spite? Malediction?”

He drops his hand and finally meets the scientist’s gaze. Verstael purses his lips how he does when he’s about to begin a rant but Ardyn reaches forth and grabs his face with one hand, cheeks squishing childishly between his fingers. His pupils grow wide with alarm while his eyebrows draw harshly downward.

“ _ Something _ must have cracked in that blond head of yours to turn you this way.”

His hand stings and turns red where Verstael strikes it. He lets it be carried with the motion and fall back to his side, swinging once before settling. Verstael is sneering indignantly up at him.

“Your disposition is growing more and more irritating by the day, it seems.”

With the swish of a red cape, he’s facing forward and descending the stairs before them. Ardyn watches after him for a moment before following suit, the skin of his hand pulsing beneath the black glove. It grows colder through his many layers the further they go down. For a moment he believes they’re headed outside so he pulls the red scarf closer to his neck in an attempt to quell the chill.

When they reach the bottom, the door requires a set of passwords and a hand-scan before it grants entrance. Verstael inputs both and briskly continues his pace once it opens. A blast of cold air blows his cape in circles and catches the ends of Ardyn’s own dark coat, the sudden change in air pressure palpable. Large machines spew forth a frozen mist from the ceiling and onto whatever lies below their platform, below the horizon of slick metal frosted with patches of white snow.

When he peeks over the edge of their platform he’s physically taken back. Blue lifelessness rests there on a bed of dormant volcanic rock, eyes closed in an unnatural slumber. The deep scars bourne from a near fatal wound are present on his chest, and the labyrinthine curls of animal’s horns adorn the top of his skull. Frozen over by layers of ice is his golden god’s crown, fitted just above his forehead. These are all signs of the rebel Astral of legend, Ifrit, the Infernian, and he finds his suspension of disbelief struggling to come through.

“You… subjugated a god…? And brought him here?”

He shuts his mouth with a click, one hand finding his scarred wrist and rubbing instinctively. Verstael moves into his eyesight, grin menacing.

“Isn’t it marvelous? Modern technology allowed us to abscond with this precious specimen whilst he and the Lucians remained unaware. He was sleeping so peacefully I had to put him on ice to ensure it wasn’t interrupted. And here he has remained for 589 days, under my intense scrutiny.”

Ardyn removes his fingers from his wrist, stomach unsettled. Verstael watches his movement, eyes flickering to the man’s face a moment later.

“Well? Your thoughts on this acquisition, Adagium? Do you think you could turn him?”

Ardyn swings his head first, eyebrows furrowing, then the rest of his body. Verstael doesn’t step back when he approaches.

“Into a daemon?!”

The scientist nods, gesticulating with his words. Ardyn wants to pin his arms to his sides to stop the maddening movement.

“Of course. Imagine the possibilities! With a god on our side, there would be little we could not get our hands on. Infinite knowledge of the cosmos, the etymology of the Astrals, and perhaps even the Scourge itself. We could pluck out the heart of the celestial mystery and bend creation to our will. Think!”

He rolls his eyes in disbelief and lets his weight lean on one leg.

“And then what? If in doing what your propose, I destroy the Infernian. All for information I may not even have the resources to decipher. Only the Oracle can speak the language of the gods, and I, dear Chief, am far from divine messenger.”

This time, it’s Verstael’s turn to grab Ardyn. He reaches for and makes a fist into the scarf tied around his neck, yanking him closer.

“That sounds like an excuse,” he spits, breath coming out in white plumes. The fire in his eyes is white hot as he pulls Ardyn further down to his level, the man stumbling at the sudden movement.

“These  _ divine _ beings are who settled your fate as one outcast, first from life and now from death. The Infernian was subjugated by the remaining Hexatheon and interred upon Eos for his crimes against humanity. Were you not the same? Stuck in a prison of rock, betrayed by those closest to you? Just imagine, executing revenge through divine retribution!”

He finally pulls the scarf free, the fabric sliding out from under his coat collar and either side fluttering away into Verstael’s grasp. Ardyn backs away and straightens himself, suddenly missing the article. The scientist lifts it closer to his face, expression unreadable. He lets his hand drop to his side and makes to waltz past Ardyn toward another set of stairs. He stops beside him, cape and scarf trailing behind a moment slower.

“How do you know what I want?” Ardyn asks quietly. Verstael regards him.

“I don’t. But I know you have no other options.”

With that, he continues forward, boots ringing off of the metal ground and bouncing along the walls. Ardyn glances toward the Infernian, unmoved from where he lay. Slowly, he approaches the ledge and squats down as close as he can get, the god still hundreds of feet below. Barely above a whisper, he speaks to the unconscious being, a deep dissatisfaction lodged in his throat.

“Were I in your position, would I wish for deliverance?”

He takes a breath, suspending the insanity of the situation, so large it threatens to overwhelm him.

“If a chance to end the suffering came upon me, to escape the bondage of my captors, would I embrace it? Give heed to this harbinger, this… savior?”

He grimaces as he stands, knees stiffened by the cold.

“Perhaps that matters not. The only thing which matters is to see this unfortunate series of events to a satisfactory close.”

He begins his stride in the footsteps of Verstael, adjusting his hat with one hand.

“And to make pay those who have done wrong.”

 

Verstael is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. His smugness is there but he has some form of humility to veil it, earlier unprofessionalism forgotten. He opens the door to the lower level and they step through, the scientist explaining the procedure they must use to daemonify the deity. It feels like a death march to Ardyn, the facility becoming colder than ever before-- colder than even the mountain air outside the steel walls. He’s brought back to reality when he runs into Verstael’s back, causing them both to stumble.

“Watch where you’re walking!” the scientist exclaims, brushing the front of his clothes off indignantly. “Were you listening to me?”

“No,” he states plainly, straightening his own vest.

“I said something is amiss down here. Be on your guard until I call for a security inspection.”

He spins around on his heel and continues forward. In his fisted hand Ardyn spies the red scarf, given then taken from him so unceremoniously.

He takes several steps into the open room, quickly becoming bored. It’s some form of storage warehouse, he notes. Verstael joins him, arms crossed across his chest.

“They’ll be arriving shortly.”

“What has caused you to conclude a breach?” Ardyn asks. His eyes find the ceiling and he smiles slightly, tired stubble shifting along his cheeks.

“Perhaps them?”

In a stream of blue sparks, one, then three, then seven black-clad soldiers drop down and surround them in a circle. Several more join on the outskirts, all taking defensive positions with their weapons. Ardyn recognizes their uniforms from Angelguard.

“Lucians…!!” Verstael spits, taken aback. Ardyn observes them, distinct features hidden behind masks. To him they all appear the same: a threat.

“You’ve come to kill me, then?” he asks to the soldier directly in front of him. She has been speaking something into an earpiece but trains her gaze on his, eyes challenging.

“Or die trying.”

She materializes a set of ornate daggers with a flourish. The tingle of magic fills the room as others follow this motion, crossbows, katanas, and maces all prepared for battle. Verstael takes several steps back, unsure of what to do for the first time in a long time.

“You’d best kill me quickly, then,” Ardyn sings out, turning in a circle and gesturing to them all. He stops when he faces the Chief and closes the gap between them, grin predatory.

“I suggest you run before things turn ugly.”

In a matter of seconds, he summons his sword, warps it into the soldier behind Verstael, and downs her in a single motion. They launch inwards at once and he pulls his weapon from the writhing body below him, swinging it around and catching what feels like flesh. Verstael has made a beeline for the door, repeatedly calling for backup from the facility’s guards through a wireless receiver hooked on his belt. Once he’s far enough away, Ardyn focuses on the enemies at hand. 

At his feet lies the dying soldier, face mask fallen to the side and blood bubbling in her mouth. He looks into her eyes, suddenly envious of the death she’s been so quickly delivered to. But what he sees there is piercing blue irises, framed by fallen strands of blue hair. He feels stiff, head jerking upwards to a blur of motion in front of him. Somnus stands there, too, face impassable. All around him the environment has gone dark and the soldiers have transformed into avatars of his brother. Sweat drops from his forehead into his eyes and he wipes them away furiously.

“Somnus,” he spits. The one below him rises, blood pouring as if from a tap from his mouth.

“They bear my magic, brother,” he says, one hand wiping at the red liquid streaming down his chin. He eyes the stain on his glove and drops it to the side, ignoring the continuous flow.

“They all revere my legacy, lives laid down for the country I built. What is your legacy? What will you leave behind in your wake?”   
“Quiet!” he snaps, teeth bared. He runs this Somnus through with his sword, the man reaching up and patting it fondly, nonplussed by the wound. Ardyn meets his eyes, fear growing behind his own.

“These sons and daughters of my countrymen all know you as the enemy,” he says, voice low. The duplicates of Somnus encircle him once more, slowly encroaching on where he and his brother are joined by a wicked blade. Black begins creeping into the sides of his eyes and he tries to blink it away, failing miserably. It’s then that the Somnus he’s impaled strikes. He lifts his blade and swings for Ardyn’s neck. He leaps backwards to avoid the hit but the tail end of the sword catches his throat with a sickening burn. He stumbles, hand reaching on instinct to close over the wound. His baser nature comes through and attempts to channel healing energy, but instead where his hand touches burns like a thousand suns. His vision goes full black then inky, Somnus pointing his blade toward him.

“No..!” Ardyn gurgles out, blood catching in his throat. Inside him he feels a rushing current of darkness, pounding at the dam of his consciousness. In a flurry of motion he’s thrown his own arm to the side, power coursing into his weapon. The blade hums and glows eerily, pitch growing louder and louder until it breaks, Somnus withdrawing from the light. Ardyn watches as it reforms into a long and sturdy scythe, red and sinister in his hand. He steadies himself on the ground, feet planted far apart, and dashes forward, swinging the weapon in a long arc. It catches five of the enemies in their bellies, light trailing after and surging through their wounds. He dismisses the weapon and leaps forward, body light as air, and crashes his palm into the face of one of them. His blue eyes roll back into his head and his limbs begin to disintegrate, purple-black matter filling the air and seeping into Ardyn. Flashes of a life lived until now fill his head and he groans, snapped back to reality. The environment has come back to him, cold and open warehouse, as several more Lucian soldiers form up to attack. He glances down at his body and finds its leaking black sick everywhere he moves. His hearing is muffled and everything appears to move in slow motion, darkening and lightening in unbearable sequence. He lets out a scream and dashes forward, scythe appearing on command in both of his hands. What follows is a flurry of movement, blood, and blackness, his throat and eyes stinging harshly with every step. The soldiers fall one by one, sometimes several at a time, in incomprehensible fashion.

When it finally ends it’s as if he’s breached the surface of a lake at night. All noise has stopped and color has returned to his sight, light grays stained red with the blood of tens of soldiers. The flow of memories that aren’t his has ceased and merely tickle behind his eyelids. Ardyn raises his hands to his face, all flowing blackness gone from his flesh.

He feels the need to turn so he does so, facing the entrance from which he came. Verstael stands there, eyes widened in horror, one hand steadying himself on nearby bars. Ardyn leaps forward, body immaterial, and strikes the wall beside the scientist, blade meeting flesh. Verstael jumps when it pierces the wall, face splattered red with freckles of blood, lips dripping with it. He shakily looks aside to where Ardyn has attacked and sees a Lucian soldier scrabbling against the sword through his ribs, desperately trying to cling to life. Ardyn rips it from him and he collapses onto the ground, ripping at the ground for purchase to crawl away with. Warily, body like a leaf in the wind, Verstael meets Ardyn’s eyes where he stands intimately close to him.

“Have your reinforcements arrived?” Adagium croaks to him. The scientist’s gaze lowers to where Ardyn’s shirt hangs open once more, sliced by the dagger of the soldier. His white shirt is stained red and his throat, once opened and mortally bleeding, has healed over, brown crust coating his skin. He meets Ardyn’s eyes once more, mouth quivering in an attempt at speech. The metallic tang of blood, not his own, hits his tongue and he recoils slightly, hand reaching up to his face. Ardyn beats him there, gentleness a heavy juxtaposition to his earlier savagery, and wipes the blood off of the man’s lower lip. Verstael cringes but restrains himself from pulling fully away, letting Ardyn sop up the mess on his face. He uses the sleeve of his coat to free the scientist’s freckles from the layer of red covering them, chest rising and falling steadily now. There’s an unearthly noise from the back of the warehouse and a massive draft that catches their attention. Verstael’s guards are all running away from the far wall. Verstael starts but covers his face with his arms after an ensuing explosion, pipes bursting and metal shrapnel flying in all directions. Fire engulfs the surrounding area and Ardyn shies away from the heat, dry eyes cracking open to find the source. From the wall of flames Ifrit appears, horns swirling mightily in the air, back tall and proud. His eyes are red with vengeance and he swings his gods’ sword, catching guards and Lucian soldiers alike as they attempt to flee his wrath. Their bodies burn and scorch, the powerful smell of cooked flesh joining the cloying scent of blood.

“How did he..?

The blond stops, heavy with thought.

“The lab!” Verstael exclaims, stepping backwards then looking at the door.

“I must save my research before he destroys it all!”

Ardyn meets his eyes at the same time the scientist looks back at him.

“Can you take him down?”

Witty retorts left behind, Ardyn simply nods. Verstael nods back and books it out of the warehouse, desperate to secure his life’s work. Ardyn turns back to the god to see him send a group of soldiers flying, balls of fire shooting across the sky. He reaches deep into himself and pulls on that daemonic energy, finding it supplemented from the Lucians he’s consumed with darkness. He flies forward, newfound speed already becoming second nature. He strikes the Infernian’s legs, aiming for the tendons and muscles keeping him standing. When the god lashes out he quickly evades, appearing higher in the air and slashing as he falls back to the ground. The god seems unphased by his attacks. Like swatting an ant he lashes out at Ardyn and the soldiers fighting him, speed surprising for a deity his size. Ardyn tactfully slips from his reach and deals blows with his sword, unaware if it causes any significant damage. He summons the strength to call upon his scythe once more, the weight of its power causing the Infernian to cry out angrily. When his attention is focused on a group of Verstael’s guards, Ardyn rushes forward, weapon ready, blood dripping from a cut in his forehead into his eyes. The god turns suddenly and catches him in a crushing grasp, the wind pulled almost immediately from Ardyn’s lungs. The heat of the fire dries his skin and his clothing feels claustrophobic between his body and the god’s hand. He’s lifted high into the air to face the Infernian head-on. He’s hardly able to look him in the air, due to sheer size difference and heat signature. A ringing starts up in his ears again, powerful and oppressive.

 

_ What business does a member of Lucis Caelum have here? _

 

It’s a voice inside of his head that makes his spine pulsate. The growl of each consonant is uniquely ancient and malicious all at once and Ardyn recognizes it as Ifrit, the god of fire. He glances the large scars decorating the deity’s bare chest, reminiscent of a blade’s cut.

 

_ But you are of them no longer. _

 

He looks up, the golden crown atop his head dancing dangerously red with fire.

 

_ An exiled heathen, abandoned by time. Yours is a being which reeks of betrayal. _

 

He struggles against the gods’ grip, face dripping sweat now, hair sticking to his scalp. His hat has been lost somewhere and the heat blisters every inch of exposed skin, irritating the fresh, pink scar across his neck.

 

_ The audacity wielded by your kind is unceasing-- unperturbed by time and circumstances. You grow bolder with each millenium, forgetting the nature of your bodies, formed from the dust of stars and given life by us cosmic forces. For your insubordination to all things divine, I will crush the soul from your bones. _

 

He pulls one hand free from the Infernian’s grasp, head pulsating so hard he feels his eyes rocking with each heartbeat, and raises it above his head.

“Oh, Infernian,” he cries out, catching the deity’s attention. “Grant me the power to take Somnus, his people, and his cursed kingdom, and burn them all to the ground!!”

He pulls all of his might into his palm and strikes the Infernian’s hand, the sound of flames roaring to life overwhelming even the ringing. The Infernian’s body jolts, eyes losing their edge and jaw clenching in pain. Ardyn lets out a defeated noise from his throat, words forgotten, head light. Suddenly, he’s released from the gargantuan grip and falls to the hard floor, something audibly breaking in his body. Ifrit falls to his hands and knees, groaning with great effort. Ardyn breathes shakily, rolling over onto his belly to see the fallen god. He begins speaking, ancient tongue piercing his eardrums. 

 

_ You…! You dare to subjugate a god?! _

 

Ifrit extends a hand to him, whether as a cry for help or at one last chance for attack, but Ardyn is out of arm’s reach. It’s then that Ardyn realizes what he’s just done. The deity’s body dematerializes into a thick, hanging cloud before racing toward him and breaching his body. 

 

While viewing the Infernian’s memories, he feels a range of emotions within rapid succession of each other. The change from loneliness, to love, to hatred is one such flow that leaves him breathless, lungs aching for oxygen. With every betrayal he sees his heart grow darker and darker in its views of humankind, the sordid need for revenge filling every crevasse and breaking him apart, like rain freezing within rocks. He sees the Solheimians, atheists blaspheming against the Hexatheon over and over, their grandeur marred by genocide and conquest. In every iteration of interaction he sees he feels a coiling sickness in his guts. Mortals are a pestilence, he realizes, and must be eradicated if the world is to be protected.

When the cinema of the god’s life ends, Ardyn finds himself standing. He doesn’t recall moving from the ground, broken and wilted from battle, to the middle of the grey warehouse at full height. He feels… satiated. Embers burn dimly from where the Infernian broke free, metal pipes exhausted of what they carried and now leaking droplets of condensation. Not a single Lucian soldier nor facility guard in the room is left alive, bodies thrown about like dolls, sitting atop a lake of blood and ash. The smell of blood has become sweet next to the black smoke filling the ceiling. He hobbles to a nearby corpse, inspects it and sees it’s Lucian, and turns it over with a foot. The man’s face is nowhere near his brother’s and he sighs, disappointed but not surprised. His time will come, however. This was but one battle against the tyranny of a throne thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> putting this fic on the backburner so I can work on some stuff irl. I have the general layout in my head but am accepting suggestions for the rest of the proceedings! hmu here in the comments or on Tumblr


	6. Across Distance and Time

“You are feeling well today?”

“Yes.”

“No adverse effects from your… transformation?”

“No.”

“You expended a tremendous amount of energy daemonifying the Infernian.”

Verstael is watching where he’s writing on his clipboard, thick, dark cursive bleeding neatly into the page.

“I would venture to say so.”

“How long did you sleep last night?”

“None.”

Verstael pauses, moves his hand down a line and continues writing.

“Any physical aches or pains?”

Ardyn shakes his head.

“No.”

“What’s the reason for your lack of rest?”

“I’ll offer you information in exchange for your own.”

“Which is?”

“The reason for your own insomnia.”

The scientist finally looks up at him, bags underneath his red eyes. He touches a single finger to one, seemingly on instinct, then drops his hand.

“I had much work to do to secure the lab. Overseeing repairs is no easy task, and the Emperor demanded answers as to the status of both acquisitions. Sleep is a luxury I cannot afford when important work is at hand.”

He searches Ardyn’s face with his eyes, pupils dancing around and changing in size ever so slightly below his light eyelashes.

“You appear to have no illnesses associated with lack of rest. Could it be yet another benefit of the daemonization of Ifrit?”

They maintain eye contact for a moment longer, neither speaking, until Verstael looks back down and makes a short note.

“What was that transformation? I’ve never read that level of power possible within your vitals.”

His eyes flicker to Ardyn’s neck but return to the paper. He’s in a lighter set of clothing, his chosen attire sent away for cleaning and tailoring after the assault. The new shirt has a high collar that goes to right below his chin and long sleeves covering his arms. Red hair dusts the tops of his hands and thick fingers, much larger than Verstael’s own. Ardyn notices this motion and reaches for his collar, pulling the thick fabric down with a hand to reveal the column of his throat. The scar is barely visible now, seated back into his skin and turned from pink to white.

“A mortal wound, surely,” he comments, watching the scientist ponder the mark. “Such power was always within me… tucked away behind the veil of mortality.”

Verstael looks up.

“Did you feel yourself die?”

“No,” he answers honestly. “Though the thought did occur to me. Once I left behind the chains of fear and embraced the force within my body, I became a being not among the living. But not without consciousness.”

“Undying, perhaps?”

“Yes. A concise term for the fact.”

“Did you activate this willingly, or was it something which  _ overran _ you? Via coercion, or survival instinct?”

Ardyn gazes at one hand, peeling back the sleeve to observe the scar encircling his wrist. Still flushed pink, still raised as if fresh. “Submitting to it appeared to be in my best interest. Had I resisted, the transformation would have completed with or without my consent. It’s an innate mechanism, designed to keep me among this world in torturous fashion. As I expend this power the force which wills me alive heals my grievous wounds. As observed.”

He gestures to his neck. Verstael notices that his face and hair have been washed since last night but he’s neglected to shave. Ardyn’s eyebrows rise, gaze at nothing behind Verstael’s shoulder.

“The scythe was a surprising addition. Never before have I seen that instrument nor wielded it, and yet it formed by my will.”

“Are you still able to summon your sword? The Rakshasha, the stories told.”

He flicks his wrist outwards and it appears in a flash of red sparks. He turns his hand around, letting the overhead lights reflect from its blade, then dismisses it back into the Armiger. Verstael hums and makes a note without looking.

“Did I frighten you?”

He trains his blue eyes and sees a smugness in Ardyn’s. Still, it’s hidden behind his genuine question. He lifts his hands with a small smile.

“If I did, do know it was not on purpose. The events of the past twenty-four hours have been as new to me as to you, dear Chief.”

Verstael sets his clipboard aside and stands from his stool. He’s no longer in his uniform, though Ardyn suspects he’s only had time in the past few hours to dress down. The commotions from the facility have quieted and areas under lockdown have had their restrictive access lifted. He’s tried: the room once housing Ifrit, as well as the warehouse and the room with the map, were inaccessible until recently. Verstael puts a hand to his neck and grimaces, attempting to stretch out a cramp.

“Do lay lie for a while and report to me any side effects you believe are from that altered state. I’ll not have much time for the foreseeable future, as oversight for repairs is needed near 24/7.”

He makes to turn but Ardyn reaches forward and grabs his sleeve to stop him. He does and turns to face him, eyes espectant. The taller man stands and plants either hand on his shoulders, eyes observing the Chief’s face before motioning him to turn around and pressing his strong fingers into his tight shoulders. Verstael hisses in pain and immediately tenses. He works his thumbs into the knots stationed at the base of the scientist’s neck, other four fingers working above his collarbone. The man relaxes inch by inch, shoulders falling and breathing evening out. Ardyn swears he hears a pleasant hum from the man once but doesn’t make it obvious that he’s heard, just continues watching the back of his head.

Ardyn lets himself relax once Verstael is completely so, swaying gently under the massaging motions. He thinks his eyes are closed and lets his own droop downward, blinking several times before shutting them and breathing out. He starts slightly when a hand caresses his own, cool, snow-kissed skin gliding over his darker complexion. The many days he used to spend in the sun kept him the color of toasted almonds, but as of late he’s seen the pigment fading to a lighter shade. All the more noticeable, then, when the Scourge corrupts him and leaks from his every orifice.

The hand stays there on his, a signal to continue his work, until it squeezes once. Ardyn stops moving his fingers and lifts them from his shoulders, Verstael moving his neck back and forth fluidly. Much less stiff than before, Ardyn notes. He moves back to give him room to maneuver and the scientist does so, leaning over to grab his clipboard and secure it in the large pocket of his white lab coat. He faces Ardyn and nods once, expression no longer strained but simply  _ tired _ . He leaves the room, the door clicking shut with a finality.

It’s not closed for good, he knows. Despite their back and forth the men have more in common than they believe. Ardyn seats himself onto his small bed and lies back, hands behind his head and eyes on the ceiling. Though he feels he no longer has need for it, he drifts off and dreams of snow meeting fire, of a steady coolness turning flames tepid. And a woman in white consumed by the darkness.

 

In the privacy of his restroom, Verstael stands with both hands planted on either side of the sink. The water is running and steam is filling the room. He plants a hand on his bare shoulder, shirt discarded to the floor. He finds the muscles there utterly relaxed and pliable, a far shot from anything he’s felt in what seems like a lifetime. When he takes his hand away and observes it, a small, golden glow remains on his fingertips before fading into the air. He cups his hands and splashes hot water across his face, uncaring how it drips from his chin onto the ground and on the counter.

He can never tell Ardyn of this finding.

 

Several hours later, an insistent knocking rouses him from slumber. He elects to ignore it for several minutes, covering his head with his pillow, until he acquiesces and rolls out of bed. His eyes sting with sleep and his watch tells him he’d only gained about four hours of it, rest broken in the middle of his REM. This horrid schedule is going to catch up to him someday, he knows, and plans on giving the person at the door a piece of his mind for it.

He shuffles to the door, muttering growing louder as the person continues knocking. He turns the handle and yanks it open, bright lights flooding into the dark bedroom.

“What do you want?” he growls, eyes squinting against the intrusion. When they clear he sees that it’s a soldier-- one of few not killed in the attack.

“Word from the Emperor, sir,” she says, passing him a sealed envelope. He snatches it and slams the door shut, grumbling all the way to his desk. He switches on the lamp and breaks the wax seal. Definitely from the Emperor. He’s trying to blink away the blurriness but with little success, so he stands abruptly, stumbles to the bathroom, and washes his face with cold water. The chill wakes him up though he wishes he weren’t so.

Back to his desk, he sets about reading the delivered message. Short and sweet, he refolds it and places it into the drawer after reading its contents, hands in face. He makes a few calls from his desk phone, gets changed, then crawls on top of his sheets. He doesn’t dare try to scoot under them for fear he’ll fall back asleep but rests his eyes while he waits.

A ringing startles him from a state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He checks his watch-- fourteen minutes have passed-- and crawls to the phone to answer it.

“He’s ready for you, sir. Shall I send him your way?”

“No, leave him be. I will go to him.”

He drops the receiver into the cradle and saunters from his room, the lights making his head ache. Four hours and fourteen minutes? So be it, then. Sleep is for the dead and the infirm. The remaining soldiers patrolling the halls snap to attention when he passes them, and it becomes aggravating to tell them to stand down after the third time so he ignores them and lets them continue standing there, unsure creaks from their metal suits chasing him down the halls of the facility. The smell of smoke is no longer detectable from in the air and he finds himself grateful for clean breathing. Their ventilation may not be the finest but it is efficient; the story of many people and things within the compound.

The door to Ardyn’s room slides open and he steps inside without missing a beat, planting himself in the middle of the floor and adjusting one glove.

“Come now, Ardyn, we’ve be--”

An acrid smell hits his nose and he stops, eyes narrowing and looking up from his freshly-tailored garments. The ancient man stands on the other side of his bed, palm outwards and purple-black energy seeping into him. Something drops to the ground and Versteal jumps slightly at it, eyes unable to discern the scene. Ardyn shifts on his feet and observes his palm, the dark energy slowly disappearing into his skin. He doesn’t appear to notice the scientist at all, but from where he’s standing it looks like he’s leaking. Black streaks run down his profile in contrast to his red-violet hair and he swears his eyes are glowing.

Verstael creeps around to where he stands, looking at the ground for the source of the noise. On the while-tiled floor sit several corpses of metal men and women, bodies thrown about like dolls. He glances to their hands and sees their weapons there, drawn and fired, likely still warm from use. He taps his foot against one’s head but it doesn’t respond, just remains flaccid.

“What are you doing?” he asks, face looking upward. Ardyn has this dull, far away look in his eyes, as if he’s searching the distance for something. Verstael notes the moment he returns to the present, eyes blinking and finding his own. The darkness and glowing eyes he saw before are, curiously, nowhere now, his skin an unearthly white, eyes focused and alert. Their color changes, however, to a fiery red that jumps out from the sclera.

With blinding speed Ardyn is gone and Verstael is shoved backwards, bottom hitting the bed as it bounces under his weight. He sits up on his elbows on instinct and attempts to stand. Before he can register what’s happened Ardyn reforms in a cloud of the same purple-black magic and plants both arms on each side of the smaller scientist, effectively pinning him down with his weight. His eyes are burning now, a hot color the same shade as a pyre, and Verstael swears he can smell smoke. The man is dressed in his newly-tailored clothing, probably delivered just before Verstael received the second call. He’s missing his coat, however, and Verstael peaks it slumped on the back of a chair behind them.

“Will you get off?” he asks, tone annoyed. “You’re burning up and sweating on my back is not part of my profession.”

Ardyn’s beard has grown slightly scruffier in the hours he’s been absent from Verstael, likely from lack of sleep, but he knows his own facial hair must be coming in, light and itchy where he hasn’t groomed it. He searches the man’s face above his own and swallows despite himself, more aggravated than scared.

He feels weight shift from one side of the bed and registers the clinking of metal. Ardyn has unlatched one side of his metal collar and is moving to undo the other from his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Verstael asks again. The man doesn’t respond, just unfixes the second latch and pushes it off. He then leans inward, cheek scratching first his own cheek then his neck. Verstael squirms where he pushes his nose into his neck, hand pulling at the fabric of his shirt to expose more of his skin. He lifts both hands and places them between their bodies on Ardyn’s chest, attempting to create some distance.

“I’m not your play-thing,” he bites, trying to recoil but finding himself still pinned. Ardyn is almost fully on his lap now, large thighs straddling him. When pushing him off doesn’t work, Verstael threads a hand into his hair and pulls on it, grunting slightly. His neck stings and he jumps, crying out in pain. The stinging gets worse and he pushes both hands into Ardyn’s hair, yanking on it from the roots. His face finally moves from Verstael’s neck and is pulled away, hands finding and grabbing his wrists, mouth twisted in pain. Verstael stares in shock at the ring of red around his lips and dripping down his chin, relaxing his grip in the man’s hair and slipping out from underneath him. He creates as much distance from them as possible, standing near the exit and panting. He rips off one glove, brings a hand to his neck and pulls it away, blood coating the pads of his fingers. He looks to Ardyn betrayed.

“You’ve broken the skin.”

He throws his glove down and points an accusatory finger.

“What kind of animal are you?!”

Ardyn still has his eyes closed, reeling from the attack. His tongue darts out and tastes the blood stained there, head lolling around in a circle. He seems a man possessed, Verstael thinks. It’s a sight that disturbs his soul, unsettling his stomach from its place in his body. Just what kind of creature has he unleashed from Angelguard?

The moment passes and he opens his eyes, irises returned to their deep amber. He makes a face of disgust and lifts a hand to his mouth, touching there and pulling away. Grimacing, he looks up at Verstael, who is holding a hand to his neck. Small streams of blood are seeping through his fingers.

“Oh dear,” is all he says.

Verstael should be mad. He should be furious at this attack. Instead he knows there’s no time for games or for reprimanding.    
“Are you yourself now?” he spits, hobbling over to the bed. He snatches his collar from the sheets and slings it over his shoulders, teeth bared in pain when he meets Ardyn’s eyes.

“Clean yourself up and let’s get a move on. I trust you heard the Colonel’s instructions before you sucked his life away.”

The wound is beginning to crust over but if he doesn’t wrap it in something, his skin will stick to the collar. Patting down his pockets, he discovers a red cloth in one and places it over the bite as a cushion between metal and flesh. Ardyn has stumbled around trying to find something similar for his face, but after failing to, wipes the browning mess on the inside of his shirt sleeve and refolds it over his arm to conceal it. Verstael walks to where Ardyn’s coat sits, plucks it up, and shoves it toward him with a gesture with his head, telling him to walk. Ardyn obeys, pulling the thick garment onto his arms and over his broad shoulders.

“We’re not late. Yet, anyhow,” Verstael begins, readjusting his collar. “Your little escapade might have cost us precious time.”

“Might I inquire as to where we’re headed?” Ardyn asks meekly, eyes shying away. Though either from contact or the overhead lights, it’s not obvious. Verstael notes he’s forgotten his hat.

“We’ve been summoned by the Emperor, you and I,” he begins, turning a corner. “He wishes to have a status report. In-person.”

“Nothing too vexing, I hope.”

“Only if one subscribes to the fear of societal hierarchy. It is from his pockets which we draw our funding so respect for that matter is standard.”

Verstael had been so deep in his head he hadn’t noticed that the man was no longer beside him.

“Ardyn?” he asks, turning cautiously around. He’s stopped in the middle of the white hallway, glowering at his hands. Verstael approaches him.

“Come now, man, we’ve no time to dilly dally!”

“I can’t seem to control it…” Ardyn says, face still perplexed. When Verstael reaches him he senses smoke again, pulling one hand down to his level to see it turned ashy and dark. He scoffs.

“With these side effects, you’re certainly in no condition for a royal meeting. And yet we must persist.”

Quickly, he rolls up one sleeve and unhooks the band of his watch, dropping it into Ardyn’s hand.

“Do you recall the count we performed in the lab?”

Ardyn nods, eyes welling up with dark fluid already.

“Good. Do that to keep yourself calm. If you find your heart rate going too fast, or too slow, keep the steady pace in your head. Override any anxiety by speaking it louder than your other thoughts. I will attempt to expedite this process.”

They make their way to the elevator at the end of the hall, Verstael pressing several buttons before the doors snap shut and it lurches to life. Ardyn fastens the watch to his wrist, latch on the largest hook, with the clock face facing upwards. He never understood why Versteal wears it the opposite way but to understand that could be asking why he’s left-handed and Ardyn is right, or why one is blond, the other ginger. All he knows is that his heart must be audible below the thick layers of clothing and ancient skin as it beats against his eardrums like a tattoo. That, or his unrest is palpable in such a small space because Verstael glances him from the sides of his eyes, making note of his unsure demeanor. He spins on his heels and pulls Ardyn to face him, eyes finding imperfections in his attire and righting them. He smooths down his vest, pulls his coat sleeves further down to conceal his shaking hands, and plucks small pieces of lint from the dark fabric hanging off his body. Finally, he stands atop his toes and straightens his lapel and shirt collar, frown deepening.

“Where’s the scarf I gave you?”

Ardyn raises a hand and points to Verstael’s neck. The man flinches slightly, then appears embarrassed for having done so. He goes through several emotions with his expression before settling for a smack of his lips. Ardyn blinks slowly and feels wetness fall down from one eye, alarmed at the tickle against his cheek. He raises a hand to wipe it away but Verstael starts.

“Don’t touch it!” he gasps, grabbing Ardyn’s hand. He reaches under his collar, face strained, and yanks the red cloth from behind it. He folds it into a small square, blood tucked on the inside, and dabs away the dark ooze from his cheek and eyes.

“Are you timing?” he asks, eyes concentrating. Ardyn nods shakily.

“Good. Keep your head down and everything should be fine.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“You think I want to present you to the Emperor of the nation like this? That would reflect terribly on my work. Were it up to me you wouldn’t ever have the pleasure of meeting his acquaintance.”

Ardyn taps the watch with one finger in time with the ticks of the second hand.

“Nothing more than that? No strings of your heart moved by my situation?”

“I pity you.”

He turns to face the taller man.

“Is that what you want to hear?”

He faces the doors once more.

“No, pity has naught to do with it. I’m a creature capable of sympathy if that’s how you’d like to see it. Logically, sympathy for your plight has little to do with it. I detest disorder and men of chaos, therefore I take control where I’m able. If I can control how the circumstances fall in my favor, I can lessen the chance of the unexpected causing a disruption.”

He eyes Ardyn from the side again.

“Like you, for example.”

Ardyn looks down at him and Verstael gestures.

“Your psyche is fragile, fracturing due to the slightest stress. One moment your charisma is overwhelming, the next you’re biting people and leaking fluid from your orifices. You claim the Infernian has had no influence over your mind and yet I can see it clear as day: changing you, molding you into a man of great purpose. Surpassing the Adagium I exhumed from the stone grave.”

Ardyn’s eyebrows draw together.

“I daresay I haven’t changed that much. What makes you think so?”

“You hold more conversations in your head than you used to. Don’t worry, I make the same expression when I’m conferring with myself.”

He gives a tight smile before settling back on his heels. It looks disingenuous but Ardyn can’t tell what reason he would have to lie. He may be attempting to ease his aching mind but comfort isn’t exactly the man’s strong suit.

The elevator beeps once and slides open, heavy, reflective chrome replaced with iron and drapery. They walk forward for what seems like ages, passing identical wall after wall, reds blurring into greys. They finally reach the end of the seemingly endless hallway where a large wooden door waits, outfitted with none of the facility’s automated locks or panels. Verstael turns the door handle and lights above flicker to life, illuminating a long room with a table, several chairs, and a television strapped to a rolling cart in the corner. Hung from the ceiling is a white projector, one blue light lazily blinking on and off. He shuts the door behind Ardyn and removes his gloves, tossing them on the table top and rifling through notes on his clipboard. This attitude Ardyn recognizes: pen stuck behind his ear, one hand flipping through countless hours of notes and the other scratching his head in irritation. He’s nervous, that, or concentrating, and Ardyn knows he’s the last thing on the scientist’s mind. He scans the room and sees no other doors besides the one they entered from. Does the Emperor reside in a section of the facility he’s never seen?

A phone he’d overlooked on the center of the long table rings and Verstael grabs it, answering it curtly before sending it back into the cradle. He slides his gloves back on and beckons for Ardyn to join him. They stand side by side, Verstael with both hands behind his back, waiting patiently. The projector whirs to life and the visage of a man appears on the other side of the table, wizened and pale. The blue light gives him an unearthly look and Ardyn finds himself confused by this appearance. A recording counts as a personal meeting?

“Your Majesty,” Verstael says with a slight bow of his head. The Emperor raises a hand.

“Besithia, what news do you bring me of your work?”

“Studies of the Adagium have proven quite fruitful,” he begins, then goes on to explain some of the data he’s gathered, no doubt crammed into his head over months of observation. While he talks the Emperor keeps his eyes downcast, nodding in understanding at intervals, occasionally pacing across the floor. Verstael’s well of information yields its last drops, conclusion succinct. The Emperor nods sagely.

“Very good. I am most impressed. I see the man of the hour is here with us today.”

Ardyn meets eyes with the hologram and he knows that this is not prerecorded. He bows at the waist, one hand in front, rising to see the Emperor gesturing to do just that. His eyes flick towards Verstael’s but he’s trained on the vision ahead.

“I am Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt, as I no doubt Besithia has told you,” he says in way of introduction. “How are you finding your accomodations in Niflheim?”

“Wondrous, Your Majesty,” he replies naturally. “You are a most gracious host.”

“It pleases me to hear it! Tell me, Adagium, is what my subordinate says true? You are Ardyn, son of the first people of Lucis?”

He hesitates, not knowing that the Emperor had already been briefed on his life. He supposes it’s his fault for not anticipating it.   
“It is indeed. Though I find the mountain ranges surrounding this facility call home to me more so than the plains of Lucis ever did.”

A bold-faced lie. If Verstael knows he’s lying through his teeth he doesn’t make it obvious. The Emperor chuckles, both hands clasped behind his back.

“We hope you may teach us much of those ancient times. And perhaps of the source of your own immortality. Many of us here in Gralea would enjoy a taste of that power.”

Ardyn musters up a smile when he bows again.

“Indeed. Besithia has taught me much of this world and I yearn to return the favor.”

“Impeccable! I shall look forward to our future meetings.”

He turns to address Verstael once more.

“See to it that you have new results for me next we meet. I am eager to see what your research has brought forth from the dark.”

Verstael nods and the Emperor disappears, the projector making an audible clicking noise as it turns off. Verstael lets out a breath of air, shoulders falling, hand sitting atop his belt buckle, weight shifting to one leg.

“You’re a natural diplomat,” he tells Ardyn, pride evident in his face. “Would I have known your propensity for speaking with royalty, I wouldn’t have wasted my time with a pep talk.”

The last part sounds accusatory in a way he can’t pinpoint. The scientist gathers his clipboard, flipping through the pages nonchalantly. He tucks them back into place and straightens, eyes expectant.

“Shall we?” he asks Ardyn, who hasn’t moved. He’s looking at where the Emperor had stood, mind wanting to ask about the technology but pushing it aside in favor of a more pressing matter.

“How much did you tell your Emperor of me?” he replies. His hands have stopped shaking and he can hear the ticking of the watch clearly in the quiet room.

“I told him everything he needed to know to OK the project,” Verstael replies. “Minor details may have been left out.”

“Such as?”

“You expect me to remember everything I report on?”

Ardyn is in front of him within a second, crowding his space.

“I do. And we both know you’re more than able of doing such.”

Verstael doesn’t back away from his imposing stance. Instead, he smiles, more so with his eyes than his mouth.

“The content of my reports are all recorded and archived for future use, should the need arise. I face more data in a day than you could dream of in all your facilities; forgetting the unimportant details is not only expected but necessary if I’m to retain something new and pertinent. Don’t think me superhuman. Yet, anyhow.”

“I have it on good authority you know exactly what you have and haven’t told him.”

“Can we leave now? I dislike being this far from the lab.”

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

Verstael’s smile turns into a smirk, eyes crinkled at their edges. He gets closer yet to Ardyn and stands on his toes in a challenge.

“I simply dislike being asked questions one already knows the answer to.”

He drops to his heels, spins around, and exits the room, letting the door slam behind him. His echoing footsteps are muffled by the door, soon entirely dissolved into the walls. Ardyn makes after him, catching up to him in a matter of seconds. The man walks remarkably fast for having such short legs.

“Why didn’t you tell him I’m Lucis Caelum?” Ardyn demands, stepping and stopping in front of the man. Verstael halts, rolls his eyes, and shoves the clipboard into his chest. He then moves around Ardyn and continues towards the elevator.

“When one stumbles upon an ancient conspiracy, one wants to keep the advantage in their favor. The Emperor knows not of the ancient texts detailing the Founder King’s brother and I intend to keep it that way. It’s as I’ve said: you’re no longer of that name. As far as everyone outside of this laboratory is concerned, your name is Ardyn Izunia.”

Verstael fully intends to leave him down there so Ardyn has to stop the elevator door from closing on him. He slides in beside Verstael, agitated but pacified for now.

“Excellent work on not making a stain on the carpet,” Verstael comments in an aside. Ardyn is about to ask what he means but sees the man pull the red scarf from his pocket, refolding it to face a clean side outwards, and press it between his collar. He waits three seconds then pulls it away, examining the dried blood with a derisive sniff.

“Let us hope you’ve no ancient bacterium floating around in your saliva. Modern medicine can only be so helpful in the case of known ailments.”

“I… apologize,” Ardyn says. “I was not myself.”

“All evidence has been scrubbed from the room,” Verstael replies, eyes on the dial as they ascend. “Though do not have it in your mind I won’t be investigating this.”

“You were protecting me.”

“Come again?”

Ardyn pauses, eyes distant.

“You were protecting me,” he repeats. “From your government.”

“What cause would I to do that?” Verstael replies, taking his clipboard back from Ardyn’s limp hand. Smoothly and without anger, Ardyn takes back the object, meeting eyes with the scientist before letting it drop to the ground. He slowly closes the space between them, grabbing for the man’s hands with his own and bringing them upward. Verstael doesn’t protest when his back hits the elevator wall and his hands are pinned above his head. He glances downwards at his notes, scattered around their feet.

“You’re going to clean that up,” he says matter-of-factly. Ardyn presses closer to him, their faces nearly touching. The blond inhales sharply, eyes crossing over the expanse of Ardyn’s, dipping down to his lips, and back up. Ardyn watches him, judging his reaction.

Slowly, he moves inward, eyes trained on the man below him. The closer he gets, the more Verstael relaxes into him, eyelids sliding shut and mouth parting in anticipation. He stops right before contact, however, and speaks.

“Say my name.”

The scientist’s eyes pop back open, lightened drastically by the effervescents above. His eyebrows arch quizzically, blond lashes a halo around his irises.

“Ardyn. Izunia.” he enunciates.

When the contact hits him, it’s like electricity.

Their kiss is all passion and force, hunger pangs igniting at the ends of their mouths. Verstael pries his hands from Ardyn’s grip and cups his face in them, mouth opening wide and greedily taking his tongue with his own. Ardyn feels his face furrow at the action, mind debating calling it off, but the heat of the moment is just too good. So he complies with Verstael’s demand, the hot wetness between them a foreign concept. His hands have pressed against the wall after being disentangled from the scientist’s, the cool metal a grounding point away from the friction. Verstael’s own gloved hands are keeping him pulled close, four fingers slipped around the back of his skull and a thumb in front of his ear, with the other hand tightened in a vice around his coat lapel. Whenever he tries to pull away to breathe he finds he can’t move. His air soon runs out, however, and he has to grab Verstael’s face in both hands to separate their mouths. The small vent in the ceiling is a saving grace for him as it blows cool air on his face and down his collar.

Verstael, meanwhile, looks irritated between his hands. Ardyn attempts to console him with soothing palms on his shoulders but he bats them away, face flushed as he kneels down and plucks his empty clipboard from the floor. He offers it to Ardyn with expectation.

“Pick it up,” he states, hand outward. Ardyn sighs, taking it from him and doing as he’s told. Verstael steps around him and leans against the far wall, arms crossed.

“Be sure to put it back in order before you’re done.”

“Certainly.”


	7. In the Absence of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING CHANGE TIME  
> I also have a new plan for this fic after receiving news of the cancelled DLC episodes, so the tags have been updated as well. this, as always happens with me, extends the life of the story like x2 so please look forward to many more updates. hopefully we get an official Dawn of the Future translation in English because right now I'm just going off of character's Wiki pages. I started shaking after reading what COULD HAVE BEEN with this "perfect" future and it's gifted me with a new life. for now, please enjoy some shameless smut between two terrible people. if you're uncomfortable with reading M writing, feel free to skip this chapter as it contributes little to the story and is more so for character development purposes.  
> and the fact that I gave myself blue balls writing the past six chapters.

Business within the facility resumes, buzzing around the areas still being repaired. The plastic sheets covering unfinished infrastructure crinkle around in the breeze caused by swiftly moving feet and machine’s expelled air. Just as Verstael had said, Ardyn sees very little of him. He only visits once to draw blood from his arm and ask if he’s experienced any more dissociative effects. Ardyn replies no, truthfully, that his guards haven’t been abused by him anymore and Verstael nods, taking notes without looking at the paper again. He stands to leave, pulls his coat sleeve up on instinct, then tuts when he realizes his watch isn’t there. It looks like it’s not the first time he’s forgotten about lending it out. But without asking for it back or allowing Ardyn to offer it, he exits the room in a flurry of white coattail and clipboard, leaving the man to his devices. He looks at his arm, the pinprick of the needle already healed over under the sheen of disinfectant, and shrugs the sleeve back downwards. He refastens his coat and plops his hat on top of his head, making his way through the facility’s winding halls. He stops by the room he first met Verstael in. The candles are the same length as they were two days ago and the setup is unmoved. He lets his fingertips drag across the red tablecloth, conversations of Lucis and clone meat floating through his head. Next, he wanders back to the elevator that took them to the Emperor. It takes him several floors down to an unfamiliar area but refuses to go further, even with handprint authorization. A good security measure, he supposes, despite the fact that the Emperor isn’t physically present. If any person could access the room behind the wooden door, so old-fashioned in a facility of great means like this, then they would have trouble. He traipeses the halls of the new floor, finding endless filing cabinets containing more notes and audio recordings, likely Verstael’s. Guards patrolling the area pay him no mind as he rifles through the technobabble, bored. Perhaps these soldiers haven’t heard word of their compatriots.

He stumbles across a file dated several years back with large sections of it’s documents blacked out. He lifts them to the air and attempts to read past the inky blots but they appear to have been made with the same material as they were typed up with. On a desk nearby rests a dusty typewriter, some innocuous document sitting unfinished in its scroll.

He gives up trying to piece together the story from the unredacted bits, flipping through the medium-sized stack for anything not erased from official record. In the very back sits a memo with only a few words. The address reads from the capital, Gralea, and he scans the simple message written below:

 

_ You are hereby invited to the consecration and following Processions of Elvira Aldercapt. Details to be delivered forthwith. _

 

He finds no evidence of the following details, so he repacks the manilla folder and files it back into place, quietly shutting the cabinet door.

He returns to the main floor of the facility where he meanders into the lab with the map. The taxidermied daemons still sit in quiet violence, mouths open for the darkness to seep into. He watches as goblins in cages are subjected to a series of tests, some screeching in pain as others simply disintegrate before recognizing their fate. He removes one glove and sticks it through the bars of the outer cage, flipping a switch on the outside with his free hand. Instead of the artificial sun that first burnt him, a purple light shines down. It feels warm but nothing more, the goblins inside passive to its effects as well. From the corners of his eyes he swears he sees Aera inside of the cage, bloated and black, but the illusion disappears when the light stops shining and the effervescents click to life.

Beside the cage, the wall where one of the paintings hung is barren. The small chairs and interactive panel are still present, so he plays with the switch, turning different sequences one after another. He hears Verstael’s distinctive growl from across the lab and walks to where he’s within view. The man is upstairs beside a lighted panel, speaking with a technician. His voice carries along the walls of the wide room, commanding attention and obedience, and it feels like a lifetime since Ardyn has heard it. In this light his blond hair appears darker and his eyes even more so when he turns and Ardyn sees his profile, exhausted lines along his cheeks battling against endless productivity. He’s gesturing to something on the wall and speaking in jargon he can’t quite hear nor understand so he turns his attention elsewhere, gaze finding the new additions to the lab.

He makes his way across the room, fiddling with things here and there, unsure of what to do to pass the time. He makes to observe the warehouse where, just a few days ago, the Infernian broke from captivity and threatened the lives of everyone here, but stops when a glint of gold catches his attention.

He turns around fully from the bottom of the stairs and sees the Banishing of Adagium refixed to the wall. There’s no evidence of it having been destroyed by his sword from afar but he doubts such a creation would come out unscathed. His boots ring off the smaller alcove, enclosed between the wall separating the warehouses and raised platform of the lab’s upper level. Upon closer inspection he spies only one indention where he believes the canvas was sewn or glued back together. The overlaying paints emulates the original seamlessly, purposefully aged to match the time period. He wonders if the same artist who restored this one is performing maintenance on the Angelguard version near the goblin cages.

“I do hope you’ve no plans to ruin this restoration as well,” he hears from behind him. Verstael is standing on the ground floor, arms crossed. He motions for the technician from before to leave them alone. In the brighter lights of the painting Ardyn can see every wrinkle and freckle along the expanse of his face. His hair is disorderly but neat, obviously pulled at from stress but combed back haphazardly with fingers. Now that he’s speaking at conversational level, Ardyn can note the scratch of his vocal cords, probably from dehydration and constant instructions to his assistants.

“You look tired, Chief,” he comments plainly. Verstael is unmoved.

“Sleep falls second to work. If I collapse then I may be dragged to bed, but while things remain undone I should see to it that I’m present,” he answers. Ardyn steps closer to him, stopping at a respectable distance.

“Would you care to speak of the other day?” Ardyn asks. Verstael shakes his head.

“No. And certainly not in here. You think I take pleasure in stirring up trouble in my own backyard?”

“Ahh, so I’m trouble, then.”

“In layman’s terms.”

“Then I must agree, you very much enjoy getting trouble in trouble,” he replies easily, stepping closer. He reaches under his sleeve and unhooks Verstael’s watch from his wrist, lifting one of the man’s hands upwards and letting it drop into his open palm, closing his fingers around it with his own. Verstael opens it and examines the deposited contents, a small smile creeping onto his mouth.

“You no longer have need of it?”

“I would hate to keep a man from knowing the time when he has need for it. Time matters not to me how it does for you.”

The scientist refastens it to his left wrist, clock face on the tender side of his wrist, and beckons Ardyn to follow. He gives him a small tour of the lab, pointing out new additions as well as old ones. They make their way upstairs to the chilled room where Ifrit was kept, but the ice is no longer present. It has been cleared out and the walls patched where he appears to have broken free, the plaster and metal beams contrasting with the cool metal layering around it.

“We have to bring in specialists to fix the overlay,” Verstael states, commenting on what was on Ardyn’s mind.

The warehouse is free of any evidence of battle. Except for an assorted number of chips in the ground and wall where weapons and shrapnel had hit, no bodies or fluids from them remain to the naked eye. Verstael’s clean-up crew must have worked as hard as the man himself to remedy the gory situation.

The tour takes much time, Verstael answering Ardyn’s questions with his professional coolness. He glances at his watch only once at the end of things and scoffs.

“The hour is late. As much as I detest it, humans must go to rest to perform at optimal levels. I shall have to work on my own until the dawn breaks once more.”

“Or you could take a break?” Ardyn suggests. Verstael scoffs again.

“For what? Work isn’t done during idleness.”

They’re standing in the main room once more, Verstael leaning against the map in the center. Ardyn takes a chance and reaches for his face but the man pulls away, eyes averted.

“Don’t make me remind you of the rules of this lab.”

“Despite the fact that we are all alone? You wound me, Chief.”

“And yet even still, you refer to me as Chief. Where is your friendly manner reserved for me alone?”

The question points out a flaw in his thinking but he ignores it, suddenly giddy from the undivided attention. This is what he’s been craving.

“You haven’t called me by my name in a long moment. I must admit that I miss it.”

“You forget yourself.”

He’s smiling, though.

“Would that I could help you, but alas, I cannot. I’ve no time for such things.”

“Time, time, time,” he tuts, circling around to the scientist’s side. “You mortals always so imprisoned by your fear of time. If you could break free from your chains, you’d be as limitless as the sky.”

He’s found his way around back and lightly plants his hands on both of Verstael’s shoulders, fingers immediately finding knots. The man hums so he takes it as a sign to continue.

“Not all of us have the luxury of immortality,” he says in way of reply, neck tensing and untensing from pain. “You heard the Emperor. Countless men and women would die or otherwise kill to know your secrets.”

“I offer them so freely. It’s up to you, the dearest Chief Besithia, to unravel them for the common man.”

“Your faith is not misplaced.”

He uses an elbow to work a particularly difficult spot below his shoulder blade, Verstael hissing through his teeth.

“Could I tempt you to lie down for a while? No mortal could possibly withstand this level of battering. I’m sure your bed misses you as much as you miss it.”

“... Sleep wouldn’t be remiss right now.”

Ardyn feels his hands stop and eyebrows raise. He was expecting a fight. Verstael turns to face him.

“Did anyone say you could stop?”

He stretches his neck to one side, groan accompanying it.

“Never you mind. I shall go lie down for a few hours, if only to rest my eyes. You’re welcome to do the same, if you can, as the lab will be free of movement for at least until the sun rises.”

He makes to leave them room, Ardyn still dumbfounded in place, so he silently follows him, eyes drooping. He’s beginning to think the blond man has more sway over him than he initially thought.

The elevator ride is silent save for the panel’s electronic beeping. Verstael fights closing his eyes and sways dangerously before Ardyn grabs him with steady hands. Alarmed, the man insists he’s alright, sniffing and straightening his coat out. They finally reach his room, secluded from the hustle and bustle of the facility’s main areas.

“You didn’t have to walk me here,” he comments, fishing for the keycard to his door. Ardyn casually leans his weight on the wall.

“But if I hadn’t, you very well may have fallen asleep in the elevator.”

“Hardly. It was a moment of weakness, unlikely to occur again.”

“But if it does…”

He gingerly places a hand atop Verstael’s as the door clicks open. Verstael eyes him suspiciously.

“You’ll need someone there to assist you.”

The door swings open from the force of Ardyn’s back hitting it, small automatic table lamp blinking to life. It slams shut behind Verstael as he attacks Ardyn’s mouth with his own, needy noises rising from his throat. He breaks after a moment, pulling his white coat from his shoulders and loosening his black tie.

“Where’s this new energy from?” Ardyn asks, excited. The man tosses his tie to the ground and grunts.

“It doesn’t matter. Get out of those clothes before I change my mind.”   
Ardyn easily acquiesces, shimmying out of his coat and vest with ease. He’s in the middle of pulling his hat from his head when Verstael is on him again, hands pulling his head down to his height. He pulls open his own white shirt, breaking away only to breathe once. Ardyn wants to look at him but settles for running a hand up his naked back, fingertips feeling gooseflesh rise there. Small hands slide beneath his own open shirt, pushing it up and over his broad shoulders. It crumples to the ground in a pile, tailoring forgotten, and Verstael already has hands on his belt buckle.

Ardyn pushes him away but his hands remain, unlatching the metal from the leather with ease.

“What’s the matter? Got something I haven’t seen before?” the scientist asks, hair rumpled. Ardyn breathes a laugh and steadies his hands, stopping them from their quest.

“Aren’t you impatient? Would your mother be proud of this behavior?”

Verstael rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Don’t bring her into this. She never believed in science anyway.”

He leaves Ardyn’s belt dangling and smooths his hands up his chest, fingers gliding through the dark red hair across his belly and pecs. Even on his own skin, Verstael’s is as pale as the moon floating in the sky right now, full and bright. He hums in agreement when he reaches his collarbone, teeth finding his bottom lip.

“You’re maddening, you know that? 2,000 years old and still a specimen.”

“I know, I don’t look a day over 1,800. You can say it.”

Verstael barks a laugh, genuine humor filling his eyes. He leans in and kisses Ardyn’s chest once, hands splayed and searching his torso. Ardyn brings his chin up and finds his mouth, kisses slowed and purposeful. Verstael slips his tongue into his mouth again and the feeling isn’t as awkward as before, the slow dancing of their lips filling his veins with adrenaline. He breaks their kiss and leans into the man’s neck, mouth and breath ghosting across his skin.

“No blood this time,” Verstael instructs, hands loosening Ardyn’s belt the rest of the way and letting it fall to the ground. Ardyn kisses the healing pink mark of his attack, careful in case it’s still tender. He kisses it again then gives it a tentative lick, Verstael squirming under the care.

“Does it still smart?” he asks against his flesh, hands roaming his sides. The man is lean and taught to the touch, muscles working themselves every day in the pursuit of perfection.

“Not particularly,” he replies. Ardyn kisses further up at his vocal cords, lips latching onto his Adam’s apple. The man’s head tilts backwards, breath escaping raggedly.

He lets the skin go and squats down, arms lacing around the back of Verstael’s knees and lifting. The man lets himself be hoisted into the air, balancing himself on Ardyn’s shoulders and face, teeth latching onto his lower lip and pulling on it gently. He slowly backs up to the bed, steadying himself against the edge of the mattress before sinking down to sit. Effortlessly, Verstael moves his thighs to straddle him, slacks pulled tight. Ardyn runs a hand up either side of his legs, coarse palms scratching against the fabric.

“Are you going to take them off or question my taste in fashion once more?” he asks, bead of sweat forming on his brow. Ardyn chuckles against his chin.

“Care to remove your shoes first?”

The man tuts, reluctantly leaving his seat and instead sitting beside Ardyn on the mattress. He brings his feet up and unlaces the first shoe, leather squeaking against the cloth.

“If you think I’m going to let you watch me prepare, you’re wrong,” he states, one loose shoe finding the floor. Ardyn pulls his leg pant up and begins removing his own boots. 

“Do what you must. I’ve no idea of the ceremonies of male copulation, so I will be following your lead.”

“Very well. Go to that drawer and pull out supplies.”

Verstael scoots further back onto the bed out of his way and Ardyn leans over to open the night stand. Inside is a small, clear bottle and a cardboard box. He pulls them both out and hands them to the blond man. He takes the bottle but pushes the small box back at him.

“Those are for you. The instructions are inside.”

Verstael then makes a motion for him to turn around so he does, fishing a small packet of paper from the box and unfolding it. He hears a small click and a sigh from behind him.

“This is… contraception?” he asks, examining a small foil packet.

“Precisely. Not to ward off pregnancy but rather to keep clean-up at a minimum.”

Another light sigh and Ardyn can’t help but look behind him. Verstael shoos him away insistently and he complies, albeit with annoyance.

“Once again, I’ll remind you I’m entirely new to this situation. Please feel free to fill me in at any time on what it is you’re doing.”

Verstael doesn’t reply for a moment and it unnerves him.

“You’re not entirely new to copulation, are you?”

“I can say it has been quite some time since I’ve last had the pleasure.”

He feels the bed dip and a warm presence move beside him. Verstael grabs the small foil packet and rips it open, discarding the cover.

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

He’s entirely naked and erect now, slacks thrown somewhere onto the floor. For a man who despises chaos he certainly will make an exception when it’s convenient for him.

Ardyn unfastens the button of his pants and slides them down his thighs, then removes his underwear last. He’s slightly hard from the excitement but nowhere near Verstael.

“Firstly, you’ve got to get yourself ready,” the man explains, exasperated. Without waiting for Ardyn to respond he reaches for his cock and begins stroking it. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes finding Verstael’s. The man laughs at him.

“You do realize this is what it was headed for?” he asks, fingers squeezing harder and pulling the skin back. He grits his teeth and blows out some air.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised.”

He leans in and kisses the man, slow and passionate. Verstael responds with a quickened pace of his hand, Ardyn nearly choking at the feeling.

“Remember, there’s some of us without much time.”

Ardyn stands suddenly, Verstael loosening his grip, and crawls toward him on the bed. Verstael scoots back on his arms, legs spread wide to accommodate him. His eyes are fiercely concentrated, cock stirring with arousal. Ardyn settles above him, reading his expression.

“Are you finally ready?” the scientist asks, blond hair fallen out of place underneath his head. His freckles extend to the rest of his body, sprinkled in clusters along his shoulders and peppered down his arms. His chest, belly, and legs are all spotted with dark melanin, hips and ribs protruding from under his skin. Ardyn observes him hungrily, repressed urges bubbling to life.

Without another word he enters him, one hand steadying his cock and the other pulling one of his legs further upwards. Verstael looks like he wants to protest the lack of condom but leans his head backwards, throat exposed and letting out a small affirmation. He pushes testedly, each thrust finding himself deeper than the last. Verstael relaxes around him, small whimpers growing louder until he has to cover his own mouth with a hand. Finally, Ardyn bottoms out, breath struggling to stay calm. Verstael lifts his head and moves his hips experimentally, muscles clenching with the movement and eyebrows drawing upwards.

“Gods,” he says, pulling his feet further upwards and adjusting his bottom. “You’re larger than I thought.”

Ardyn grabs both his ankles from their place on the bed and spreads them far apart, hips sinking back against his bare ass. Verstael groans, hands flexing against the sheets. He starts with quick, shallow thrusts, barely pulling himself out and pushing back in. Verstael is biting his lip again, watching where they’re connected, face concentrated. The hot, tight feeling surrounding him is indescribable but the way Verstael jumps and moans when he begins to hit harder sums it up pretty well.

“Fuck,” he hears the man grit, tears pricking the edges of his eyes. That’s the first time he’s heard him use such vulgar language. It travels from his ears to his cock and up his spine, nerve endings everywhere alight with sensation.

Ardyn keeps at this pace for a while before slowing, savoring each drag out and push in, reveling in the warmth against his hips when he reaches the bottom. He hasn’t realized he’s begun breathing through his mouth, red lips parted for humid breath to pass through. Verstael shifts, a hand reaching outwards. Ardyn isn’t sure what he needs until he stretches, almost desperate, and touches his fingers to his chest.

“Stop,” he pleads, chest heaving. “J-Just for a moment.”

He does so and lowers the man’s feet, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of one knee. Verstael rubs a hand over his face, starting at his chin and ending in his hair. He looks like he’s weighing options in his head.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

He only grunts in response, pulling his knees under him and sitting up.

“Kneel like I am,” he responds, hands on his thighs. Ardyn complies and the scientist crawls to straddle him once more, hands balanced on his shoulders. He leans over and presses a kiss to his mouth, soft and warm.

“Like this?” Ardyn questions. Verstael raises an eyebrow.

“There wasn’t near enough friction for me. This way, we have more control over our movements.”

He shifts, trying to get comfortable on his knees, but as light as he is Verstael’s weight makes it impossible. He motions for him to sit up higher as he readjusts his legs, sitting with them crossed instead. Impatient, Verstael lines his rigid cock up again and sinks down onto it, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“Better?” Ardyn croaks. It’s already shaping up to be a lot and he’s feeling slightly overwhelmed. Verstael’s watch glints in the lamp light when he runs a thumb along Ardyn’s cheekbone.

“Much better,” he sighs into his lips, legs beginning to pump him up and down. Ardyn finds respite clamping down on his upper arms, eyes torn between watching his face and drinking in the redness of his chest, freckles brought to life by the river of blood running below them. He forces him to look up, however, where he’s brought into a bruising kiss that leaves his lips aching. Verstael groans and tangles his fingers in his hair, gripping it at the roots and pulling roughly. Ardyn can’t help but gasp at the intense pain that shoots across his scalp, mouth hanging open to follow it with a moan. Verstael is moving in a fast, riding-like pace, gentle sighs turning into feverish, indecipherable protests. He bites down on his right hand, noises muffled, but Ardyn plucks it out and locks their fingers together, planting their foreheads against one another.

“I really wish you hadn’t cut your hair,” Verstael says with a perfunctory shake of his head, fingers tightening in example. Ardyn grits against the pain.

“So you could yank on it like a reign? Sorry, but there shall be none of that today.”

Verstael pushes his face into Ardyn’s neck, their beards brushing and scraping against the other. He sucks on a patch of skin right below his ear, audible noises coming up from his tongue. He lets go of the spot but coaxes Ardyn’s head back further, the man’s eyes watching him warily. He leans back in and bites down on the same area, hands tugging then relaxing in the mess of red hair. Ardyn struggles underneath him for a moment, desperate to pry him off, but his orgasm overtakes him and he tenses up, muscles everywhere contracting almost painfully. He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders, the thoughts melting away shortly after, what it feels like on Verstael’s side. He gets his answer moments later when he refocuses his eyes, the man sitting atop him still feisty. He untangles one hand from his damp locks and pulls at Ardyn’s lower lip with his thumb, gaze searching his face as if viewing a specimen on a slide.

“I’m surprised you lasted this long, though after 2,000 years it’s a miracle everything still works. You could’ve given me some forewarning, however.”

Ardyn’s chest is still heaving, sweat rolling down in rivulets.

“Gathering data even in bed, then?” he huffs. Verstael nods. He kisses him once, shortly, then goes in for another long, drawn-out one. When they pull away his eyes are half-lidded and filled with intention.

“Well? Are you going to finish me off? Inexperience does not get you a free pass.”

Ardyn shifts underneath him, thighs sticky. His cock is semi-rigid and still inside of Verstael, who rocks back and forth impatiently to keep himself interested. When Ardyn fails to answer he rolls his eyes, face turning uncomfortable for a moment when he pulls off, and shoves him down onto the mattress with a finality. He crawls to sit on top of his legs and Ardyn’s hands find his hips on instinct.

“I shall take charge and show you the way. Make sure to pay attention, as I’ll only demonstrate this once,” he says, hand lifting from the sheets to sweep his hair back in vain. It falls back into his face when he leans over and strokes Ardyn’s cock several more times, the man in question pushing back his overstimulation. It gets red and swollen again in a matter of minutes, Verstael pushing himself back on it with a shudder. He’s feverish now, settling himself in for what looks like a wild ride. Ardyn thumbs his pointy hip bones, pads of his fingers stroking the hollows of his pelvis, as a way to distract from his quickly-building pleasure. Verstael is riding him with rigor, hands planted on Ardyn’s thighs behind him, and is letting all sorts of noises spew from his mouth. He gets desperate then, hands bouncing the man in-time to help him along. Verstael notices this extra force, jaw tightening with a whimper, and holds onto Ardyn’s hands for dear life. He looks like he wants to stop but can’t begin to give up the stimulation. He looks so boyish here, composure crumbling away when ecstasy is at stake. Ardyn reminds himself that disregarding his imprisonment, he and Verstael are very close in age. Though having faced his share of hardships he’s still very young with many years ahead of him, hopefully undeterred by days spent without food or rest. Ardyn himself no longer has need of these things and the concept is no longer foreign.

But here in the early hours of the morning, deep in the Ueltham mountains in a frozen metal facility, he realizes the thing he’s feared all along about pursuing a relationship: that someday, Verstael will die, an old and grizzled man, blond hair turned grey and framing his head in sparse strings, and his research will either have yielded great results and changed the world, or it will burn into ash and join him in oblivion. Heaven and Hell-- if such places exist, they will both be hard-placed on where to stamp Ardyn’s ticket-- don’t exist for a man like Verstael Besithia. He craves ownership, responsibility, and above all, a legacy. He wants to leave his mark wherever he can in an attempt to assert control, to prove that his existence was not just for show. But here in his dark bedroom, breaths coming out in hot clouds from between his two lips, hands quaking against the skin of a man so much older than him and yet still so close in mind, legs and thighs trembling from exertion and delectation, he’s really just a man, so earnest for companionship he defies himself in almost every way. He’s destined to rise to the top, but whether he goes higher than the clouds or falls in flaming waves, Ardyn wants to be there to see it. To hold his hand as they conquer the world together, the ancient and the modern, and to die all of the little deaths in between the exposition and the conclusion.

When Verstael orgasms it’s a full-body effect, his eyes squeezing shut and his entire body tensing up. He comes onto Ardyn belly without having touched himself once, spine obdurate to the weight of his muscles, pleading for release. Ardyn helps him along though, large hand stroking the length of his cock in what he hopes is in time with his convulsions. When he finally comes down from that high he slowly creeps downwards, hands sinking into the sheets beside Ardyn’s head and body going slack. The taller man moves uncomfortably and pulls himself out, gently coaxing him to where they’re both laying on their sides. Verstael is breathing evenly now, eyes closed and cheeks burning a less-intense shade of pink. Ardyn reaches for and touches his face. The scientist opens his eyes and slides a hand atop Ardyn’s, expression utterly pacified as compared to the fervor of before.

He wants to tell him everything. To spill his happiness and regrets from his former life onto the bed tonight, to express even the smallest of his concerns for the future of a man who doesn’t age and one who does. To tell him that he’s not even from Niflheim but he can see that the Emperor is just a puppet on a throne, and someone with a mind half as brilliant as Verstael’s could be the mastermind behind a new direction for the country.

He closes his eyes instead and breaths in-time with the already-slumbering body beneath his hand, sleep creeping into his limbs and taking hold fast for the first time in what feels like centuries. What dreams he does have don’t stick, melting into the ground like the powder of a first snow.


	8. The Progeny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this week has been a heck of a week already, so I apologize for the late update! I like to keep my updates to Mondays, mostly because those are my days off from work, but sometimes that changes and I get caught up in the grind. please enjoy!

What Ardyn does see from his place perched above the icy landscape is something he’s come to expect. The years of pouring over blueprints and master theses, of intricate sketches and late-night fascinations from sleep-deprived consciousnesses. Seeing the amalgamation of Verstael’s life on the terrain below him is as exciting as it can be. Which, to say, is nothing much. The Unit XDA-1002, known within the lab as Immortalis, tears through the ground, gaping maw red and angry, sights set on the small snowmobile speeding away from the now obsolete lab. The deepest, primal part of him is afeared at seeing the gargantuan creation. The Gods, he thinks as he traces the predicted route of the escapees, were right to smite the Solheimians. Their destruction didn’t stop a madman from bastardizing their technology more than two millennia later in a grandiose quest to end all life besides his, but it possibly stopped something far worse. Or even just postponed the part about the madman. The escapees open fire on the Immortalis, whose disembodied laugh shakes the fluff from the frozen branches. He’s watched this young man-- this Prompto Argentum, so he’s been named by the Lucians-- go through a series of dramatic changes over the past few days. Poor boy. The winters never get this chilly in Lucis because they don’t have the carcass of an ice God rotting in the midst of the mountains. He’s glad he’s found a coat that keeps him warm and, most importantly, doesn’t drown him with the sleeves. But where on earth did he get that hat? The knitted cap is black wool, all strings and pills sprinkled across it. It’s seen better days. But the way it smooshes his bright blond hair down on top of his head isn’t becoming at all.

He has no trouble keeping up with their speed from atop the valley wall. Out of sight and out of mind, he thinks. Prompto’s got much larger fish to fry. In this instance, a very, very large mechanical… worm? It looks like a worm.

“Oh, Verstael,” he tuts aloud, leaping over a deep crevasse and disappearing into the air, body reforming unscathed at the other side. “If a worm was your intention, perhaps your taste in fashion was in need of more help than I initially thought.”

The Immortalis suffers an explosion near its head and it recoils, the snow mobile making some progress before it resumes its chase. In its wake is a huge, long, muddy line, beginning at the lab and snaking across the land like a fresh scar. Its body has penetrated the permafrost below the new snow and thrown it all about like a child let outside after the rain. His love for that facility, the place where one could argue he was reborn, is undisturbed by the havoc dealt to it by the Immortalis. If he had any love for it to begin with perhaps he would feel some sting of regret at seeing hot flames begin to lick at the ceiling’s open hole, but it’s no use dealing in rhetorics.

He sees that he’s fallen behind the action and speeds up, boots crunching into the deep snow at his feet. The chaffing wind against his face is exhilarating and he can only imagine the way Aranea feels at the helm of their getaway vehicle. He hopes she has goggles lest she ruin her eyes and not get to see the world fall to ruin.

Speaking of, where could Noctis and his other blind, scarred friends be? Surely they’ve made it across the continent and are en route to Gralea at this very moment. They not only have a train at their disposal but the loyal car of Regis Lucis Caelum. A sleek, dark thing, built for protection and performance. He’d had to hold back a scoff when he’d seen the tacky chocobo sticker plastered to the back fender, like using iron-on patches on a Vivian Westwood. He’s sure it will get them into the capital to their dear friend, Prompto, and possibly get them out. But they would be leaving there minus one, at least, and into a world free of the Crystal’s blasted light. Not that he was counting on them making it past the decrepit MT shells wandering the halls of Zegnautus in one piece. The skeletons in those closets could keep a person busy for ages and mortals only have so much time on this plane. Unfortunately, without the help of divine damnation and an express purpose to defy the divine, no mortal ever has, or had, a chance of achieving immortality. No MT, no historian, no Noctis, and no Verstael Besithia.

After a rain of bullets destroys one arm of the Immortalis, it begins to lose control. Verstael’s voice echoes through the valley, diatribe landing on all present ears but pushed aside in favor of survival, or a closer audience, depending on if you’re one Aranea Highwind, Prompto Argentum, or Ardyn Izunia  né Lucis Caelum. From this moment on it all falls into place and not in Verstael’s favor. The gun Prompto mans has too much firepower and his accuracy is astounding, given the circumstances, as he gets all but one long arm powered down from the mechanical beast. The Immortalis powers up one more powerful shot, head rearing back and pulling as far away from the bullets as possible. The light inside its mouth grows brighter and brighter, eclipsing the grey cloud-covered sun and making a high-pitched whirring noise. Ardyn’s ears begin to ring at a different frequency and he squints against the light from the growing shot. From atop the valley walls he hears Aranea bark an order, then Prompto respond. He lets the steering of the machine gun fall slack and swings an even larger gun from its place around his back, the Commodore ducking in-time to miss having her temple bled. Prompto takes aim through the viewfinder, yells something to Aranea, then squeezes one eye shut behind his goggles. Ardyn hears what he says despite the distance.

“Keep driving and don’t look back!”

If Ardyn were to continue narrating the scene in his head, it would all be much more dramatic than it really was. He could say that the Immortalis planned to release its shot at the same time as the grenade launcher lands its first fiery attack on its body, startling it from concentration. And that the second shot knocks it off of balance, the powerful beam of energy firing into the air instead of at the escapees. It evaporates the clouds above, leaving a huge hole in the sky for the sun to peek through. Prompto takes his time loading another heavy shell into the launcher, mopping at his brow with the sleeve of his jacket before taking aim once more. He adjusts the trajectory of his weapon and waits, waits, waits, biding his time until the right moment. When the Immortalis’ mouth is facing him and careening forward in an attack he squeezes off several more rounds-- one, two, three-- into the center of its mouth. They hit in a sequence, electricity crackling and leaving long, black whip marks along the ground. When the final shot hits the core of the machine it struggles to maintain power, body slowing and lurching before erupting in flames.

But the reality is so very boring, so he continues narrating the events in a much more fantastical manner, making a note to possibly tell Noctis about it next they meet. Him, or Prompto. Whichever lad is more convenient at the time.

The rush of oxygen is felt all around them, blowing soft powder into the air and nearly knocking the hat off of Ardyn’s head. He’s stopped quite a ways ahead and has descended from the top of the valley walls, instead perching behind a rock and watching the goings on from there. His fedora lifts from his head and attempts to fly with the wind but he snatches it from the dancing gust and secures it firmly back in place. The Immortalis crashes down to the ground in defeat, body writhing in pain before exploding, a swell of silence prefacing it. Now that was dramatic.

The gust from that actually does threaten to bowl him over entirely so Ardyn takes refuge behind his large rock, noise of alarm drowned out by raining shrapnel pelting the ground and gale force winds. When the worst of the wind passes, he stands to see that several flocks of winter birds have been disturbed from their nests and are flying away, the trees and shrubbery all barren. Further down the way lies the two escapees, snowmobile overturned. Aranea is the first to stand, untangling her hands from around Prompto’s head and offering him a hand. He takes it, dazed, and brushes off his jacket and cap. He makes a worried gesture to a wound on her arm and she shrugs it off, ushering him over to their ride. It takes a few attempts to right it but it works the third time Aranea pulls the starter, lifting herself from the seat and offering it to the boy. They exchange several more quips, the Commodore gesturing behind her in a manner suggestive of her own ride when he pats the back seat. He sends her off with a salute, snowmobile kicking up a cloud when he revs it along a bumpy slope before finding an even, tread path. The Commodore-- or should he say, ex-Commodore-- turns and makes her way in the opposite direction. Ardyn would’ve traveled to Tenebrae to snatch away her secret, but the risk for running into Noctis is too great. He needs them in Gralea, not in Insomnia or Tenebrae, for this to go according to plan. The young Empress can wait like the rest of them. And the mercenary will have to wait for her reckoning as well. As long as the Emperor and Loqi are out of the way, Gralea is his to control and his to gift to the daemons. Now that Verstael has fallen, soul left the plane to descend where it may, mechanical body left to freeze over and break into the environment, he has but one pressing engagement. He takes his time breezing over the landscape after Prompto, biding his time for what seems like seconds. In reality, it takes a few hours before the snowmobile suffers a malfunction and forces the boy to stop and repair it. He observes, making note of how efficiently he tinkers with the guts of the machine and sets it back into place with precision, and realizes just how alike he and his father were without ever having taken the time to develop into one another. Had they had the time, Prompto could’ve become the accessory to his grand plans. Father and son, reunited for a greater purpose.

Nevermind the fancies. He lifts his sleeve and checks the time on the gadget secured round his wrist, gold band glinting off the white snow. This catches Prompto’s eyes and he swiftly turns around, gun in hand. Ardyn lowers his hand and smiles, dark coat a stark contrast to the brilliant ground. The boy’s eyes bear the same terror as in the lab, all giant, purple-blue irises set against his flushed skin.

“What do you want?” he asks, gun readied in both hands by his side. Ardyn tuts and takes a few steps toward him. He raises and points the barrel at the man without hesitation.

“I pulled the trigger on him,” he states, face resolute. “And you can’t stop me from doing the same to you.”

“Why so hostile?,” he asks, stepping closer still. Prompto pulls the safety back without breaking eye contact and Ardyn stops, hands raised slightly in surrender.

“What if I said I had a tale to make you less repugnant? Something to whet your palette, perhaps.”

“My palette is fine, thanks.”

He doesn’t sound grateful at all.

“My, my, how ungracious of you. I bring you to your father and this is how you repay my kindness?”

“You pushed me off a train.”

“Sometimes we require a push to get going in the correct direction.”

“Don’t talk like you know me,” he bites with a gesture. Ardyn doesn’t flinch. “Or you know what’s best for me. I’m not my father, and I’m definitely not your friend. So wipe that grin off your face before I blow it across the ground.”

“So violent!” Ardyn laughs. “You used to be such a sweet thing. Where has all that sunshine gone to?”

Prompto fires a shot directly at him, eyes cracking open after the echo recedes. He glances warily around him when the tall, black coat is gone and all that remains are footprints deep in the white powder. His finger hits the trigger on accident when he’s slammed against the snowmobile, head hitting the seat and bouncing to the ground. His vision swims and he strains against it, focusing on the dark figure amassing before him. He squeezes another bullet but finds his hand caught and twisted, gun dropping from it and a sound of agony erupting from his throat. Ardyn reaches out and caresses his face, thumb running over his smooth cheek where a tear has involuntarily fallen out. His eyes aren’t watching him but instead trained on the bright red scarf secured around the Chancellor’s neck. A distraction, he reasons, from the splintering bones of his wrist.

“Hush now,” he coos, Prompto’s cries turned to whimpers. “I’ll make it all go away. For now.”

He strikes him over the head once more and he lolls before falling unconscious onto the ground. Ardyn easily straightens his limbs and slings his body over one shoulder, singing “upsy daisy!” when he stands. It’s best he not be awake for the next thing; travelling via dematerialization isn’t for the weak of stomach, after all. And if the boy really is anything like his father he’ll be empty before long from the sensation that only daemons may suffer without consequence.


	9. Pater Noster

When he awakes, the place beside him is warm and breathing steadily. Ardyn blinks several times, eyes adjusting to the darkness, memories of the previous engagement slowly dripping into his mind. He turns to look behind him and sees a tuft of blond hair sticking up from a pile of blankets. He feels chilly and looks down at himself, where’s he’s completely uncovered and nude. Verstael has rolled himself in all of the covers and is sleeping soundly, with no intention of waking up soon, it seems.

He lets his hand hover over the mass in the bed for a moment, hesitation hitting him last-minute. He gently shakes it back and forth, voice quietly urging him to wake up. When that doesn’t work he tries harder still, voice raising to a higher octave. The lump shifts once, Ardyn pulling his hands away, then goes still. It moves again and what he guesses is the Chief Scientist of Niflheim surfaces, eyes nearly still closed with sleep.

“Good morning,” he says, unable to help the laugh that bubbles up from his throat. Verstael mumbles something and flops back down unceremoniously, back to Ardyn. He scoots towards him and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Come now, say it back,” he teases, head finding his blanketed neck.

What he responds with is muffled by the comforter.

“Pardon?” he asks, gently removing the obstruction. Verstael repeats himself.

“This doesn’t give you permission to sleep in my bed at night.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it! I fear if I brought my own blankets they’d be swallowed in your quest for the perfect cocoon.”

He pulls the edge of the large comforter out from under Verstael, who grumbles in protest, and scoots closer to the man. He slips his hands around Verstael’s front and finds his hands. To his surprise, they’re warm. He gently lifts one up to his mouth and kisses it, other hand brushing away the choppy baby hairs from the nape of his neck. Verstael laughs incredulously, voice deepened with sleep.

“You’re quite the soft fellow.”

Ardyn ghosts his lips over his shoulder, planting a soft kiss to a cluster of freckles.

“If what you’re going to say includes ardent protests against romance, I’m afraid you’ve found the wrong man,” he breathes against his skin. Verstael tuts quietly.

“You know I’ve no patience for that sort of thing.”

“And yet I also know you won’t keep this to one night.”

“What’s your certainty based in?” he demurs. Ardyn stops stroking the skin of his arm and Verstael looks over his shoulder at him. Ardyn is frowning, contemplative, so he swivels in his arms to face him.

“Tell me,” he begins, settling back into the sheets. “About Aera.”

Ardyn meets his eyes, but instead of teasing or even objection, his eyebrows draw upwards just the slightest.

“My first love, the shining light of the dark world. Everyone was against us being wed in the first place, but once they saw we were unwilling to sign the apologia they either gathered in support or zealous opposition. For that reason as well as other assorted politics of the day, I was an outcast from the palace. We continued meeting in secret when she could escape her guards, but those times were few and far between. When the proceedings of kingship came to a climax, I returned, only to be scorned by my brother and sentenced to execution. When he made the attempt on my life, it was stopped by Aera herself.”

“Well, we both know how the rest of that execution story unfolded,” Verstael sighs. “What became of her?”

“She died. Quite tragically, in fact. Somnus’ blade cut…”

He stops for a moment, lips pursed in concentration.

“Blade cut through her back, body falling slack into my arms. The moment seemed oh so slow at the time, but the reality of it was she was dead before I lowered her to the ground. Her last words were merely the stagnating regrets of a person murdered in the prime of their life, by a homicidal maniac, no less. I do believe I cried, then.”

His eyes are far away, searching some lost distance for answers or even validation. He shakes his head as if to clear away the fog.

“I remember not what happened after. The years, the darkness, they’ve washed over my mind and left my memories streaky like sand near the tide. This corruption, too… it’s driven my abilities of recollection to their limits.”

He sighs heavily. Verstael can see the weight on his soul, hanging on like an albatross.

_ “Autrement dit,”  _ he begins in conclusion, “What’s left of my Aera has been eclipsed by her death. Her life and the critical opprobrium it drew by association with me are nothing to the years now. To try and resurrect them anew would be a... painful experience.”

In a gesture of affection, Verstael lifts a hand and rests it on Ardyn’s cheek. They meet eyes and he can see the smallest twinkle of appreciation in the amber irises staring back.

“Is she here now?” the scientist asks. It’s a very strange question that draws him off-guard, if only temporarily. The silence stretches on for longer than is comfortable before he answers.

“No. Not now, at least.”

When he says this, Ardyn’s eyes try to remain steadfast on Verstael’s but they swing behind his shoulder once before returning to his gaze. The shorter man scoots in closer and buries his head in Ardyn’s chest, taking his side of the covers with him. Ardyn pats him fondly.

“You’ve much work to do, you know.”

“Mmhm.”

“And work isn’t done by sitting idle.”

“Indeed.”

He smiles, hand running in circles on his small back.

“If you’ve no intention of leaving soon, may I ask a question in return?”

Verstael nods against him.

“Tell me of Elvira.”

Now, Verstael groans deeply in dissatisfaction, face moving back and forth as if denying the request. He lifts his head and faces him.

“Why would you bring her up, here of all places?”

“You have more on the subject than you’ve divulged.”

His lips jut out in a pout and he props himself up on an elbow.

“There’s nothing more to say.”

“Did you attend the funeral?”

“To pay my respects to the Emperor, of course.”

“You seem to hide away much from your Emperor.”

At this, Verstael smiles. He pushes himself up and slides to the edge of the bed, leaning over a bit before standing and stretching. He massages his lower back with a hand.

“What he needs to know he is told. Anything more is simply extraneous information.”

Ardyn watches him move and gather his clothing from the floor, separating their articles from each other and efficiently folding them onto his desk. Reluctantly, he too stands and moves before the man, cool morning air hitting his warm skin. He takes one of Verstael’s hands again but can’t help the alarmed smile that hits his face.

“This small window of time out of bed and they’re already cold?” he asks incredulously. Verstael snatches his hand back and regards him with a sneaky smirk.

“If I let my assistants know I have warm blood they’ll never respect me.”

“Fire your assistants, then. They’ll soon know the truth.”

“Ha! They could only dream of not feeling the cold through their spines when I approach.”

“Not if I tell them.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Make me your only assistant, then.”

He leans in and stops right before his lips touch Verstael’s.

“We’ve no need of them anymore.”

“Oh, then you’ll be the one to scrub the floors after the day is done? To clean the goblin cages for the next round of tests? Do as you wish, man, but don’t expect you’ll touch me afterwards.”

“There will be no need for cleaning floors nor cages.”

“Is that right?”

Verstael thinks he’s teasing so he responds in-kind, mouth dipping towards and away from Ardyn’s.

“Mm, correct. Because I have a plan for the future of your lab. One that eliminates the need for the human element and therefore the option to say no. It’s your call.”

Verstael appears to think this over, jaw working itself.

“Tempting. These buffoons wouldn’t pass a facility safety test again were they given the notes. I do hope this means you’re not counting us in the elimination equation.”

“Of course not. You and I are ascended from that title. What I have only requires your open mind and expertise.”

“Tell me, then, and get yourself dressed. We’ve no more time to spend on trivialities.”

 

The vision he sees is darkness, penetrated by the occasional flash of grey light. He thinks he remembers this view, on roadtrips spent sleeping against the Regalia window. When the afternoon sun got so warm it turned his eyelids red and roused him from slumber only to want to go back. It’s always a nice feeling to know he’s in safe hands, the car taking corners smoothly and braking evenly at occasional stops. But when his vision begins to clear up, he realizes this is nothing like those groggy car rides. The light is too dim, and coldness has crept into his limbs like the branches of an old tree, roots breaking up earth and even concrete. The stillness, too, that he’s apparently felt for some time has caused static to surface in his extremities. How it used to do when his legs fell asleep during class. Nothing was more painful than when Noct would deliver a swift kick to one of his feet and the static turned to a thousand needles, poking into his jelly limbs and reawakening all his nerve endings.

He thinks he’s still in the snow, fallen over and knocked unconscious by the Immortalis’ dying breath, so that would explain the inability to move his hands or feet. One by one he wiggles his fingers and toes, happily finding them mobile under his clothes. His sight is all blurry whites and greys, nose dripping and neck stiff. He tries to wipe his eyes, finds his arm immobile, so he settles for rapidly blinking away the sleep. It works in some fashion when he sneezes, watery eyes clearing away the goo sticking them together. He’s facing a set of steel bars, bare, cold floor several inches before him. There’s a room in front of him that looks like it has a bed and the same floor, door swung open. His ears tune into his environment and he wonders how silence can have a noise. There’s an echoing emptiness that he can’t shake so he purposefully tunes it out, teeth aching in his jaw. The silence creeps back in, however, slow and persistent, and he begins whining to drown it anything. Something, anything to make it less terrible. He tries to cover his ears with his hands but they’re firmly held back by something. He looks, breath rate rising, and sees them pinned down by metal clamps. His feet are in the same situation, blood drained down to them so they pulse with his heart. It hurts, he realizes, and the rush of oxygen makes him lightheaded.

The blaring silence finally stops and he looks up and forward. In the doorway stands a man, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Can you,” he begins, then cringes against his hoarse voice. “Can you get me down?”

The man smiles, shifting his weight from the doorway and waltzing towards him.

“Of course, Prompto,” he says, and it takes a minute for him to recognize his own name. The man reaches for one restraint but stops just shy of the latch.

“Oh dear, it seems I forgot,” he says in an aside. His face appears in Prompto’s view and they’re at eye level with one another.

“You have friends coming for you. I wouldn’t want to spoil their glorious rescue efforts.”

He turns and his coattail trails after him, swinging against his ankles and providing a relieving noise of fabric on fabric.

“They’re working so hard to get here, I’d hate for it to be easy to reunite the four of you. Or three. Or, even just two. There’s no telling what terrors now roam the halls of the Keep, no longer kept at bay by the valiant white Lucian Knight.”

“What…? Who?”

“The man turns back around to face him.

“Poor thing, you must be so confused! Your noggin must have taken quite the beating. But rather than explain myself, I’ll leave it to the Keep to grant you the answers you seek. What is said in silence, after all, speaks louder than any words we may muster from our mouths.”

He swiftly exits the room, hat lifting off his head in a goodbye. Prompto pulls against his restraints feverishly, heart pounding in his chest.

“Wait! Don’t go! I don’t understand! Where’s Noctis?”

The man had disappeared around the edge of the wall but backtracked to reenter the area, one hand cordially in front of him and the other around back.

“But my dear! Are you so eager for his return? Let us play a little while longer, while we wait for the savior to return the world to light. You’re in no position to say no, anyhow. Ta ta.”

He exits with a finality that leaves Prompto shaking. He doesn’t want to but lets his head hang, breathing slowly becoming less erratic and eyes dripping closed. He remembers the clang of a distant machine startling him, but not enough to lift him from his troubled sleep. One thought, as clear as crystal compared to the rest, burns into the forefront of his mind.

 

Don’t end up like your father.


	10. Darkness Eternal

“To word it succinctly, Your Majesty, Ardyn and I have discovered a breakthrough into the origins of his existence. Work has already begun into replicating this phenomenon and is ongoing as we speak.”

The Emperor nods, blue face still as stone.

“And what of the man himself?”

“He remains within the facility, subject to our supervision and vigilant testing.”

He nods again, hands behind his back lifting and falling when he paces.

“Do not let this be a failure, Besithia. You speak of something which gives our cause hope-- gives me hope. I expect your updates to be fruitful and more frequent than they have been.”

“As Your Majesty commands.”

“I mean this to my fullest, Chief. Do not disappoint me.”

The projector cuts off and the hologram before him disappears. Verstael sighs and lets his shoulders fall, misanthropy settling in hard. He grabs for his clipboard and storms out of the room, heavy wooden door closing behind him with a residual echo. The elevator ride is uneventful but tests his patience further, moving far too slowly for how it’s designed. He jots down a reminder to have it serviced just as the doors slide open, giving way to the facility’s main lab. He ascends the stairs and journeys to one of the far patient rooms, eyes scanning his notes as he walks.

The doors before him grant entrance and he stops in the middle of the room, not looking up.

“How are things here?” he asks.

“As fine as ever, Chief. You will be most pleased with our progress.”

Verstael scoffs but doesn’t reply, just makes his way to a set of computerized data printing from a machine. He lifts the most recent page and reads it slowly.

“Your blood sugar is down,” he comments, scratching a note on his page. “What did you eat this morning?”

“Nothing, in fact,” Ardyn comments from his chair. He’s shirtless and lying on his back on a table. A motorized machine with several clear tubes draws fluids from him while others put new ones in. There’s a pole with an IV drip going steadily nearby, connection sunk into his arm. Verstael looms over him while making notes, eyes searching his body.

“What news from the Emperor?” the red-haired man asks.

“He asked after you,” Verstael comments, moving to the foot of the table. He’s still scratching down sentence after sentence without so much as glancing toward the page. Ardyn doesn’t know why he still notices this.

“You’re more touchy than usual,” he says in way of reply, eyes never leaving the man’s form. Verstael reads the numbers on his IV and adjusts the drip, not making eye contact.

“I find his manner annoying. Once I respected his authority, and yet as of late I find myself barely restrained, arms moving more steadily towards him as if to strangle the old man to death.”

Ardyn chuckles.

“So you’re aware that your arms fling themselves mercilessly when you speak.”

“It’s a habit, hard to ignore.”

“You having that clipboard makes the gesturing far more palatable.”

A steel machine whirs down and Verstael is there immediately to check the data. He reads through hundreds of lines of information, brain drinking it in like a dying man. Ardyn sits up and plucks the connections from his arms, wrapping himself in a gauze and securing it with stretchy medical tape. He swings his legs over the side of the table, lets the blood return to his lower half, and stands, hands stretching above his head. Verstael barely glances his way.

“What say you?” Ardyn asks, waltzing toward him, shirt in hand. He pulls it on over his head and smoothes it over his chest, hands fixing his displaced hair. He leans over to examine the data with Verstael.

“Nothing groundbreaking,” the man sighs. He takes hold of a pair of readers and slips them onto his nose. “It’s the same iteration as the last, but this time we’ve duplicated a new line… here.”

He points with a finger and Ardyn follows it. He shrugs once, nonchalant.

“Then we run it again, this time altering the control to be more flexible.”

Verstael lets the pages fall back down and plucks the readers off, discarding them onto a nearby rolling table. “But if we change that, then we must run the previous tests again to ensure continuity.”

“So be it.”

The Chief gets a quizzical look on his face.

“That will take more days than we’ve allotted for this run.”

Ardyn doesn’t respond, so Verstael shoos him away and turns back to his clipboard, hands finding his readers. He looks up, eyes scanning the room.

“Where did the technicians go? Have you sent them off again?”

“Oh, yes,” Ardyn replies, facing the lone portrait on the wall. He’s dressed comfortably in sweats and no hat. “They were tinkering far too much for my liking.”

“They’ve been trained to do such,” the blond replies. “Let them do their jobs and you can do yours.”

“Which is preparing severance packages, I hope.”

“Not unless they’ve died or been otherwise stripped of their duties.”

He looks up quickly and sees Ardyn unmoved.

“Don’t tell me.”

The man turns to regard him from the side of his eyes, then returns to looking at the portrait. Verstael stands and stomps up to him, tongue finding his cheek.

“You’ve killed more of my technicians.”

“Now why on earth would you suggest that?”

“Because they would never risk defying me unless their lives were at stake. I assume they told you as much and you took things into your own hands. Quite literally.”

Ardyn smiles, canines poking out front his lips. Verstael grabs one of his large hands and examines it, throwing it back down after a moment.

“You’re learning to control it.”

“By your grace and training, I find myself far more capable of keeping the darkness at bay.”

“Am I to assume this has satisfied you for now?”

The man fully regards him, facing down the steaming short stack in front of him.

“For now.”

Verstael squints his eyes, gaze following him as he turns and begins clearing the table. He stretches on a pair of gloves and clips a face mask over his mouth and nose before disposing of any needles. Ardyn joins him in clearing away less hazardous items, sealing off fluid bags and marking them for storage.

“What are you doing?” Verstael asks him. Ardyn stops, confused.

“Assisting you.”

“Well, go away. That will really assist me.”

He turns his attention back to the table but Ardyn just stares. The scientist does a double-take before sighing in annoyance.

“You’re distracting me.”

“How so?”

He gestures to all of him feverishly, face squinched behind the white mask. Ardyn mimics him, asking for clarification. Verstael unhooks the mask from around his ears.

“If you want to be my assistant than you will do as is asked without question.”

The confusion hasn’t left his face but Verstael disregards him this time. He’s gotten the table cleared and has quickly sanitized it, preparing the various apparati for future use.

Ardyn picks up two of the fluid bags and places one in each arm, cradling them for safety. He starts to make his way to the portable cooler but Verstael steps in front of him too quickly for either of them to stop. They collide and one of bags bursts, thick liquid spilling out and dripping over Ardyn’s arm. He looks at the scientist, arms outwards in shock, and sees his front soaked in what appears to be blood. Verstael looks up and they meet eyes, a few blond strands falling into his face when the air conditioner kicks on.

Ardyn braces himself for the inevitable lecture.

Verstael closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and calmly walks around him.

Ardyn turns on his heels in-time to see the man strip off his white lab coat and bundle it into a pile. He stuffs it into a quarantine bag and removes his readers, wiping the streaking mess on a clean patch of his shirt. He looks up at Ardyn, face inquisitive.

“Well? Aren’t you going to clean it up?”

Ardyn shrugs and sets the unbroken package into the cooler, pulling off his soiled shirt and wadding it up. He makes to put it into the same quarantine bag but Verstael eyes him suspiciously. He hesitates, then continues. He straightens himself and watches as Verstael finishes the last button on his starched shirt, peeling it off to reveal an undershirt of the same color. He makes a connection in his mind and plants one fist into an open, upturned palm.

“I distract you with my clothes on,” he says, Verstael’s aggravation palpable. “But also with my clothes off. Oh, Chief.”

He leans in and Verstael leans away.

“You should have just said something. If I knew you were thinking those kinds of thoughts, I would’ve left at least one of your mortal helpers alive to keep you focused.”

“We need to find you a better shirt,” Verstael states, moving around him to tie the bag containing their bloodied clothes. “That one was far too sheer.”

“Because it was tight,” Ardyn adds, surreptitiously flexing. “The way it pushed itself against my chest left me quite breathless. Just sitting on top of me like that, it was conducive that I get it off at one point or another.”

Verstael laughs, but not in his derisive way. It’s a continuing chuckle accompanied by a shaking head. It’s something Ardyn has witnessed rarely, and reserved just for him.

He’s nervous.

Verstael makes for the exit and Ardyn follows behind him.

“Where might I find the cleaning supplies, O wise Chief?”

“Leave it there. I’ll find someone to clear away your mess, as I always have.”

“You wound me. And to think I phrased my innuendo so politely.”

Verstael stops and lets the bag fall to the ground, swivelling on his heels and jabbing a finger at Ardyn.

“If you were half as polite as you claim, you would cease and desist your actions immediately.”

“Which one? Following you to find cleaning supplies or wanting to remind you that red is not your color?”

Verstael sneers at him, nose crinkling at the junction where it meets his face, and swiftly turns back around. “Leave it!” he repeats, but whether he’s referring to the blood or the unacknowledged situation, Ardyn isn’t sure. They arrive at the room where he was first brought to change, clothing meticulously placed back into boxes since then. Verstael opens one and begins looking at a pair of dark slacks.

“Find something to wear,” he demands, discarding the pair in-hand and plucking up another. He quickly decides on those and strips out of his soaked trousers, placing them to the side for the time being. The portable radio on his belt belches feedback for a few seconds, a person’s voice hardly coming through the white noise, before abruptly shutting off. Ardyn has found a box with new tape closing it shut and is picking it open with his fingernails.

The box isn’t full to the top so he leans over to rifle through the garments. When he finds what looks like a suitable substitute, he straightens and brings them to the light.

He turns around to see Verstael regarding him. The man has taken off his sticky undershirt and slipped into a new pair of pants. He beckons for Ardyn to approach him so he does, setting the garment to the side. Verstael reaches for both of his hands, fingers trailing over the tough skin of his palms and wrists.

Ardyn watches his face as it lights up with fascination, mind processing all of this information the same way as it would a spreadsheet of vitals. In an instant he feels cold metal hit both wrists and a clicking noise penetrates the otherwise silent room.

He looks down and notices two silver rings clamped down around and biting into his skin. He looks up at the scientist and their eyes meet, his smile sinister. Ardyn tries to make his swallow undetectable.

“Riddle me this,” he questions. “How am I to clean the mess with my hands, quite literally, tied?”

Verstael takes hold of his upper arms, leading him backwards until his knees hit an ottoman. He forces him down and kneels in front of him, pushing his hands down into his lap.

“Leave. It.”

With both eyes locked in a heated gaze, Verstael takes hold of the elastic band of his sweats and pulls them downwards. Ardyn obediently lifts his bottom, turned on but slightly frightened. He’s nude underneath and Verstael seems satisfied with this. One less thing in the way of his objective, it appears.

He flings the sweats to the wayside, planting Ardyn’s feet apart from one another. He shifts his weight on his knees and reaches for the man’s cock, Ardyn stiffening at the sudden contact. He gives Verstael what he hopes isn’t too much of a desperate look.

“Forward, aren’t you?” he asks the scientist, who is biting his lower lip in concentration. He keens upwards, hand stroking firm and steady.

“I want you to know how it feels to be helpless,” he says, voice low and hushed. He thumbs the slit and Ardyn’s face twitches, will facing a large test.

“If your intention is to use chains, you’re 2,000 years too late to be original.”

“Maybe so. But have you ever copulated whilst restrained before?”

He stops his stroking of the shaft and rubs circles around the head with his palm, second hand feeling it’s way down to fondle his balls. Ardyn has to fight the want to shift forward in his hands.

“Mm, don’t answer that. I already know the answer is no.”

Without another word he slides back down and Ardyn lets his eyes flutter shut, focusing on the building pleasure in his guts instead of the hard metal limiting his wrists. The hand palming his cock leaves to his dismay, but to his immense, albeit surprised, pleasure, a hot mouth replaces it, suction hard and insistent. He can’t help the filthy noise that escapes his mouth when the hand returns to stroke what the mouth isn’t reaching. What it is reaching, though, is exquisite, all sorts of pressure building around the tip of his dick. He opens his eyes, heart rate soaring, and watches the blond head bobbing between his knees.

“Oh, Verstael,” he praises, shifting his bottom on the ottoman to gain more traction. The man doesn’t respond, just shifts on his own knees to disperse his weight accordingly. The suction becomes almost too much too quickly and he reaches for the man’s hair with both hands, a sign to slow or stop. Verstael doesn’t obey immediately, just keeps sucking. He pulls his mouth off with a pop, head tilting forward and a small moan escaping his lips. Ardyn musters the will to look down and sees that he’s fingering himself, lips red against Ardyn’s thigh. His back jolts, muscles tensing before melting and a louder moan bubbling up from his throat. Ardyn watches enviously, hips moving involuntarily with the push of his fingers into himself. Verstael looks reluctant to stand but he does so, Ardyn’s head at the top of his belly whilst sitting.

“Get down,” the scientist orders. Ardyn obeys, awkwardly struggling to sit, then ultimately lay on the ground when Verstael points to the floor. His wrists hurt from the constant rubbing of the handcuffs.

Verstael stands over him for a moment, cheeks still pink. He kneels and climbs over the man, thighs planted on either side on his body. He lifts Ardyn’s bound wrists and pushes them up over his head, hands only able to reach as far as below his elbow.

“Stay there,” he urges, hair fallen down into a golden mess. The feeling of sinking himself onto Ardyn’s cock, body rigid before growing slack and taking him in, has Verstael suppressing shudders that threaten to shoot up his spine. It’s a tight fit and not the most comfortable, but with friction he’s sure the ride will ease up.

It doesn’t take long before the man starts bucking his hips upwards, arms wiggling in a battle to be free or stay where they’ve been put. He feels a small stream of pre-cum slide out of him and smiles, breath coming and going in hot waves.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, hips undulating in a steady rhythm. He’s had his hands planted on his thighs this whole time, sweat working up between the skin of them and his palms. He lifts himself up, hovers there for a moment while he grips Ardyn’s knees behind him, and continues riding. Ardyn sits up nominally, face twisted into something between anger and pleasure.

“You’re monstrous,” he bites, dark facial hair scratching against his biceps. Verstael slides forward, hands barely making it to grip either sides of his face.

“And your hair has grown out,” he replies. fingers tangling into the red locks. He pulls on it from both sides, satisfied sigh escaping his mouth and pained grunt escaping Ardyn’s.

“Don’t let any scissors near it again and we can talk more of this.”

The offer seems generous but Ardyn wants to roll his eyes. Instead, he concentrates on the sweet pressure surrounding him.

“Oh, how I wish you didn’t need to do that,” he grits through his teeth when Verstael gives his hair another tug. “But asking you to stop something is like talking to a wall, it seems.”

“Right again,” Verstael acquieses, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. “It’s the smallest payment you can offer to me.”

His hands find a good stopping spot on his pecs, fingers flexing and nails scratching into his skin. The hairs there are tender but hurt far less than when they’re stinging his scalp. They’ve achieved a full riding pace now, Ardyn’s hips smacking into Verstael’s backside with vigor. The man arches his back, face morphing from one of uncertainty, the kind found when one isn’t sure what to think regarding their pleasure, to a toothy grin, mouth falling open and self-aggrandizing noise dripping out. It’s a filthy scene for sure, his cock red and leaking onto their bellies. It looks painful, even, how it’s been neglected, but Ardyn can hardly pay it any mind with all of the stimulation happening.

Verstael adds to it when he splays his fingers and fondles Ardyn’s dark nipples, running over them with his palms first then tweaking them between two fingers each. He’s sweating now, face burning red as he twists and turns under the man’s attention.

“Bashful?” Verstael teases, deep voice cracking and breath ragged. It’s the hottest thing Ardyn’s ever heard, the underlying humiliation of it all playing with his emotions.

“What would you do, provided use of your hands?” he continues, pace slowing and becoming more purposeful.

“Would you grab my hair back and pull? Or perhaps wrap them around my throat?”

He leans forward and breathes in heavily, cock getting much-needed friction between their abdomens. He doesn’t suppress the shudder that wracks up his spine this time.

“Punishment and sex often go hand-in-hand. Ask me why, and I couldn’t tell you. I can only say what I know to be true.”

He sits up again, pace agonizingly slow. “Did you ever punish Aera? Or have her punish you? I can recommend it for the effects on a relationship.”

Ardyn can feel that his face is hot in embarrassment, eyes stinging at their edges. He’s purposefully looking away.

“No answer needed for that either, I suppose.”

He lets out a long breath, eyes shutting and head tilting backwards. Ardyn can’t help it: he’s thrusting his hips upwards, desperate for more contact. But Verstael’s weight keeps him from achieving that successfully. The man hungrily looks him up and down, hands tracing the skin of his thighs.

“I’ve not known you,” Ardyn begins, head feeling fuzzy. They meet eyes. “To beat around the bush like this.” Verstael gives him an approving look.

“Delighted to hear it.”

“Where’s your gumption?”

“All here.”

He leans backwards, body exposed to its fullest to the man below him. He continues.

“Though if you’re referring to what I believe you are, you’re wrong. This isn’t procrastination.”

He runs a hand through his own hair, mouth opening as he grinds himself down with more force. He runs a finger down the expanse of his stomach, pointedly avoiding his bouncing cock and steering off to the side, fingers scraping his inner thigh. His legs are shaking now when he rides, sweaty exertion taking its toll. He can’t decide what to do with his hands so he leans forward once more, planting them on the ground beside Ardyn’s arms. He can hear the scrunch of the carpet between his fingers, voice barely above a whisper when he speaks.

“Turn your anger into action. Enact your revenge on me.”

Where his meaning wasn’t clear before, it is now. Ardyn swings his shackled hands up and around Verstael’s shoulders. He hauls him upwards and rolls them over, Verstael situating himself feverishly on his stomach, hips high in the air. Ardyn crawls atop him, body towering over his, sinking himself back into the wet heat of the frustrating man now below him. He pounds relentlessly into him, all aimed towards release. Verstael is all but screaming, legs hardly able to withstand the pace. A small hand reaches back and digs into his leg desperate for traction, the other pulling up strands of carpet fiber. In-between his moans he can make out filthy words egging him on, challenging even in his vulnerable state. Ardyn wishes he could find balance on his shoulders, or reach around to stroke his cock, instead wanting to break out of the silver restraints and fighting back tears where they cut into his wrists. Pleasingly soon, Verstael stiffens below him and buries his face into the carpet, noises of his long, shaky orgasm muffled by the rich texture. Ardyn finds that his overtakes him suddenly, concentration bent on remembering those shameful noises erupting from the scientist’s throat. It all goes blank for a glorious, hot moment, wiring in his brain shorting out before resuming function. The movement of his hips slows gradually, muscles aching when they finally come to a halt. Verstael slowly lifts himself from the floor, lips red and moist when he turns to regard Ardyn above him.

“Qui… Quite al…?”

He closes his eyes and swallows, one hand finding Ardyn’s arm. Ardyn nods in way of a sufficient response, Verstael returning the gesture. He fumbles for the handcuffs, hips sliding down to the floor, and undoes them with a flick to a small lever on the insides. The relief isn’t instant, his abused wrists pulsing, but he’s more perturbed than anything.

“They weren’t locked?”

Verstael swivels around beneath him to lie on his back, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he twirls them with one hand.

“I’m surprised you didn’t break them with all that rough-play of yours.”

Ardyn rolls his eyes, settling down on top of him, defeated. His thin arms wrap around his neck and hold onto him, smoothing over the bumps of his scars fondly. Ardyn speaks after a moment.

“I’m going to need a pair of scissors.”

“Mm, what for?”

There’s a telling silence after Ardyn breathes in to speak, Verstael starting under him and pushing him up by shoulders indignantly.

“Don’t you dare!”

Ardyn huffs a laugh and Verstael grabs either side of his head, reprimanding him without saying a word. Their tussle ends with a fit of laughter, the tightness leaving Verstael’s chest after several, agonizing days.

  
  


“Your eyes,”

Ardyn glances up from his page, looking at Verstael, then to the microscope he peers into, then back up.

“Yes?”

“They have an unearthly appearance to them, almost like an animal’s. Not to mention how they’ve changed color.”

“Again?”

Verstael sits up and adjusts a knob on the machine’s side.

“Not again, but their shape has. Ever since your merge with the Infernian, they’ve taken a more narrow shape. The pupils, more specifically. They lack the roundness characteristic of a human.”

Ardyn nods, making a note. “And when did you first notice this?”

Verstael shifts and clears his throat but doesn’t answer. He nods again.

“Ahh. Last night or the night before?”

“... Both.”

“I see.”

Verstael tuts and pushes himself back from the viewer.

“We’re not making any progress. The data has remained all the same. We should have seen at least a seven percent increase in productivity, and yet it has stayed at a measly one percent.”

He seems frustrated, but not in the usual way. His constant irritation is fueled by the need for improvement, but he always sees it to its end. Now, he’s stuck, unable to reason his way out of a conundrum, and the effects are telling. He tosses and turns more at night, unable to glean more than a few hours of sleep out of his already insufficient allotment. He’s been using his readers more often as well, hands making a habit of reaching for them any time he’s handed a page. His eyes are constantly red from rubbing-- a telling sign of insomnia. Ardyn sets his page down and stands, making his way to the scientist’s side. He’s chewing the end of a pen, jaw working itself around the plastic. He sees Ardyn approach and spins in his chair to face him.

“What have you got in mind?” the Chief asks. Ardyn stops before him, eyebrows raised. Verstael clarifies curtly.

“When you walk like that, it means you’ve got an idea you want to try.”

Ardyn tilts his head, tickled.

“I appreciate how you’ve catalogued this. Not so much an idea as a gift.”

He reaches into the pockets of his slacks, trying one then the other, coming out empty-handed. He holds up a finger before backtracking to his stool to dig into his coat. From the inner breast pocket he produces a silver chain, beckoning Verstael to remove the pen from his mouth and lean forward.

“Jewelry?” he scoffs, hesitating then obliging. Ardyn leans over and slips it around the back of his neck, letting the ends fall where they may. He reaches for the man’s readers and hooks either end of them into the chain’s loops, straightening the apparatus once before admiring his work. Verstael lifts them up, turning them around to examine their new place on his chest.

“I can’t wear this in the lab.”

“Of course not. We wouldn’t want it getting caught in, say, a rotary of some sort and taking your head with it.”

He crosses his arms and leans against the table. Verstael looks up from his hands, the glasses hanging down gently.

“You are aware I’m only in my thirties.”

“And yet so far advanced in faculty!”

“Is it more for my benefit, or so you don’t end up knocking them from the table and smashing them underfoot, as you did last week?”

“Err, for us both. You, so you may have them always at your disposal, and that I may not spend another two hours plucking glass from the soles of my shoes, exiled from your bed.”

Verstael concedes with a mimic of Ardyn’s posture, arms folded in front of his chest.

“The gesture… is appreciated.”

Ardyn nods and begins to turn back to his seat.

“What might you ask in return?”

He finds Verstael’s eyes and sees he’s serious. The man continues.

“Surely you must expect something of equal value. More sentimental in nature than monetary, it seems.”

Ardyn actually hadn’t. He expresses this much as he waltzes towards the seated man. Verstael shakes his head.

“I’m afraid that is not the way of quid pro quo,” he states. Ardyn brings a hand to his chin, thinking. He lets it fall back to his side and leans down, hands reaching out and slipping into the scientist’s.

“Well, if you must insist on compensation for this favor, I have been longing for a dancing partner.”

He gently guides Verstael upwards and the man laughs, dropping from his stool one foot at a time. Ardyn lifts their clasped hands into the air and slides one around his waist, pulling them closer. Verstael visibly hesitates but follows his lead, taking the support position and helping steer them clear of any obstructions. He takes a glance around them.

“Worry not,” Ardyn reassures. “Your last assistant is quite busy; I sent her away.”

“Meaning I’ll later find her within my least-used storage compartment?”

“Go searching if you must; you’ll find no skeletons or otherwise in those closets, unless she put herself there. An actual errand needed running, but she’s quick on her feet.”

Ardyn studies him for a moment. “Why are you leaning so far away?”

Verstael is fighting against Ardyn’s grip, uncomfortable look on his face.

“You dance so…  _ Lucian _ .”

“Does Niflheim have its own code for rollicking?”

They come to a halt and Verstael plants his feet on the ground, stance formal. He readjusts Ardyn’s hands and bids him to stand up straighter. Now, the positions are switched, and Verstael takes the lead, counting the steps aloud. Ardyn sighs.

“This country is far too stubborn; your pertinacious adherence to traditions and formalities is tiresome at best. Even when dancing you don’t allow any fun.”

“I am moving quite slowly, for your sake,” Verstael answers, swinging them past a table. “Were you more open to instruction, you would see the pleasantries of orderly affairs.”

“Wherever did you learn to dance? Do medical universities teach the tango?”

“I wasn’t raised up in a hospital, you know.”

They slow their waltz, feet gently swaying along the tile floor. Ardyn smoothes his hand away from where it was placed and slides it back around Verstael’s waist, pulling him closer once more. The Chief sighs good-naturedly and rests his head on his chest. Ardyn blinks several times.

“Don’t get used to it,” Verstael grunts as if reading his mind. But his hand holding Ardyn’s readjusts itself and holds just a little tighter, fingers entwined.

“Chief, I…” Ardyn begins. Verstael cuts him off.

“So now we’re back to formalities?”

When he doesn’t retort, Verstael prompts him.

“What is it, man?”

“Perhaps this… arrangement of ours isn’t the wisest.”

A derisive snort.

“Wherever did you get that idea.”

It’s phrased like a question but spoken like a statement. Ardyn continues.

“Allow me to speak candidly. If we are to progress, I suggest we extend our focus to the tasks of the lab rather than the activities outside of it. To clear this bulwark we must use all resources available to us. I hope you will agree.”

Verstael stops them and looks up at his face. His expression is neutral.

“You are suggesting we cease our affair?”

He nods. He reaches up a hand and smoothes away a fallen lock of blond hair. Verstael pushes his hand away, eyes averted. He removes himself from the taller man’s grip and goes to sit back at his stool, lining up another slide. Ardyn stands there a moment, watching him gaze back into the instrument and switch the objectives. When the silence stretches on, he grabs his own stool and slides it beside him, hands in his lap.

“No one ever achieved anything of significance with divided attentions, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you say?”

His voice is soft, all higher octaves and imploring. Verstael, without so much as a glance, takes his pen back up and begins making notes. He finishes his sentence, breathes in, and speaks.

“I am owed, at the least, the truth of this matter. Are your intentions truly focused toward our goal?”

Ardyn makes to speak but Verstael continues.

“That alone?”

He looks up from his slide and directly at Ardyn.

“Don’t lie, or I will know.”

He sinks back down into the lens, fingers adjusting minutely. Ardyn gives it a beat.

“My intentions have become yours, yes. I seek to dethrone the imposter kings from the head of Lucis and usher in a new order. But I have, of late, been untrue to this vision.”

He knows he has Verstael’s attention despite how keenly he looks into his microscope.

“Though I am capable of many things, I find my apprehension to pursue more of my capabilities rooted in fear. The fear of failure, yes, but also the fear of success. That if we succeed in our relationship, I will find myself alone on this earth once more.”   
Verstael has slowly moved from his instrument to face Ardyn while he speaks, realization dawning. They end with his eyes on Ardyn’s, dark black pupils growing wide in contrast to Ardyn’s smaller, vertical ones, a fiery red glow branching out and caressing the dark amber of his irises. The room seems to grow darker as he continues, eyes not leaving one another’s.

“Love fades, and so does youth. But revenge, if thoroughly implemented, may last forever. We possess the talent to alter the world forever, permanently stamping out the hamartia, and taking our seats at the head of the nations. Then, the gods.”

He slips his hands onto Verstael’s shoulders, firmly gripping at the bones and muscles there.

“We will make our enemies rue the day they found us insufficient to live in their realm, for when the world is ours, well… there will be no room for them, now will there?”

Here, a smile creeps onto his face, white canines poking from behind his upper lip.

“What say you, dear Chief? Seek immortality with me, and together we will not only undermine that Emperor of yours, but destroy his and all nations before subjecting the world to darkness eternal.”

The sides of Verstael’s vision have become all but black, and in the tunnel of his vision he sees the man’s eyes flicker with fire when his smile matches his, all teeth and twisted lip.

“Now, you’re speaking my language.”


	11. Nihil Ex Nihilo

“You know, you disappoint me.”

It’s the weirdest thing to wake up to someone saying that to you. Prompto cracks one eye, recoils from the intrusive light, then peels them both open. His throat is dry and his mouth is sticky with old saliva.

“Why d’you say that?”

“You had all the perfect makings of a fantastic double-agent! Implanted into the enemy country by birth, able to quickly earn the trust of the monarch’s only son, and learn trade secrets of the royal family within months of instruction. Your potential as Niflheim’s greatest son was undeniably limitless! Well, within reason. And yet, fate hath molded you into a lapdog of the nation. Bent on patriotism to a country who, if made known your origins, wouldn’t hesitate to put you down behind the barn.”

Ardyn brings a hand to his mouth.

“Oops. I meant  _ wouldn’t have _ .”

He stands from where he sat backwards on a metal chair, legs swinging over the side and swinging him over to stand before Prompto.

“You’re wrong,” Prompto responds, shaking his head weakly. How long has he been here again? His legs are completely numb.

“I owe Lucis a lot, yeah. But my loyalty is to Noct. And Gladio. And Iggy.”

Ardyn gives a tight smile and hums.

“So passionate. I wonder how your poor blind friend is doing, or if he’s gotten himself caught in a bear trap yet.”

Prompto lashes out against his restraints, muscles corded in his exposed arms. The crucifix he’s strapped to jitters in response to the violent movement.

“Oh, struck a nerve, did I?” The Chancellor smiles. “Without you there holding his hand, I’m certain dear Ignis has fallen deep into the pits of despair. The good Shield certainly seems reluctant to offer any assistance.”

“Shut it,” Prompto bites. He braces against the cold metal again and Ardyn tuts, face disappointed. He flicks his wrist upwards and a gun appears in a flash of red. Prompto eyes it and realizes, face falling, it’s the one Noct gave to him. The nice one he’d worked tirelessly to win from the Totomostro in Altissia. Before he can speak up and demand to know how he’d gotten it, Ardyn whips the butt it across his face, breaking the skin along the bridge of his nose with a terrible noise. Prompto moves with the force, focusing on the feeling of blood draining from his nostrils instead of the searing cut along his face, hardly breathing in fear it will make it open up wider. The Chancellor tilts his head, leaning in and eyeing the wound for severity. Prompto spits at him, a mixture of blood and viscous saliva hitting him on the cheek. Ardyn frowns and leans away, eyes to the floor.

“Your friends deeply misunderstand you,” he says, pacing beginning again. Prompto watches him with a venom.

“You see, they think you this simple, fragile boy, subjected to the whims of the terrible Chancellor Izunia. But you’re so much more than that. You’re your father, crafted from the bones of Niflheim’s greatest scientist!”

“I told you, I’m not--”

Another resounding hit, this time landing on his forehead. He coughs and shakes his head, hoping to clear his vision. He’d hate to see what this guy’s like when he’s done playing around.

“And I told you, you’re part of him. So just be a good boy and listen a while, won’t you? This will be so much easier with you quiet and obedient, like a good lapdog. I’m sure your Prince Charming will arrive any time now, given that they’ve made it inside this place.”

Prompto doesn’t respond so Ardyn praises him. He lifts his chin upwards with the barrel of the gun, forcing him to make eye contact.

“Excellent work. So you can listen to what your elders tell you. I must admit,” he says, pulling the gun away and letting his head fall roughly. “You pulled the trigger on poor Chief Besithia far easier than I, or even he anticipated! Those days of self-exploration out in the snowy tundra must have toughened your resolve quite a bit.”

He brings an arm to his face and wipes away the spit from earlier, sleeve dropping down just slightly. Prompto eyes the golden watch there. What first caught his attention.

“See, we took a bet and surmised it would take you, if ever you did, at least ten seconds more of crying before ending his life. By then you may well have been on your way to daemonification, so suffice to say I’m pleased with the way events have proceeded.”

“That thing,” Prompto starts. Ardyn frowns at him but he continues anyway. “That watch on your wrist. It’s broken.”

Ardyn looks at it as if just now noticing it was there.

“Why do you wear it if it’s broken?”

He lifts his eyes up from the accessory, other hand toying with the silver firearm.

“It was a gift,” he states, gaze swinging to the young man. Prompto sees him flicker around between his face, hair, and back to his eyes before continuing, eyes betraying some emotion. “Your father, the Chief, gave it to me on the eve of our achievement.”   
“Achievement?”

“The Immortalis, of course. We successfully bound his soul to the machine about fifteen years ago, when you were but a pup. The night before the final preparations, he came to me with it in-hand. _ ‘Chancellor Izunia,’ _ he told me,  _ ‘It is as if Providence has smiled upon us this day! My watch, which has ticked since the day on which it was received, has stopped functioning. It is as if it sensed I no longer had need for its services as time-teller.’ _ ”

Prompto blows air from his mouth but regrets it when Ardyn issues a warning glance his way.

“That sounds a little flowery, even for that guy,” he says, swallowing involuntarily. “So why give it to you?”

“To thank me, of course. For the many daemons I bound to his body, allowing him to achieve immortality. Perhaps also to commemorate my rebirth as a citizen of Gralea. Time truly began to move again once I was freed from my prison.”

Prompto shakes his head back and forth.

“What, too fast?” Ardyn taunts. “Shall I slow the narrative for you?”

“No, it’s not that,” he replies truthfully, throat burning. He looks up and finds the Chancellor’s eyes.

“You keep talking to me like I know what the hell you mean. I don’t understand any of this immortal crap and I don’t really want to. I just wanna know how Noct and I play into all this.”

He swallows and takes Ardyn’s silence as a sign to continue.

“I mean, he’s the prince. I get that. He’s supposed to be dead so you could take the Crystal. Then what? Why make him, or us-- me, Gladio, Iggy-- suffer, when Noct already knows he needs to get that Crystal back? Isn’t killing his dad and destroying Insomnia enough?”

He’s too tired to fight back when Ardyn lifts his head by the chin again, this time with his hand. He makes sure not to look in his eyes.

“Oh, dear boy,” Ardyn says, tone taking on one of pity.

“You haven’t seen suffering yet. The pain I’ve yet to give you all is fathoms ahead of your current flesh wounds and stunted pride. And better yet, I won’t even be the one administering it.”

Prompto whines when he touches the gash on his nose, then rubs a thumb over the one at his hairline. He can’t help but glance at the man in front of him, leaned in so close he’s afraid to breathe at all. There, he sees that his skin has turned ashen, and black fluid leaks from the ends of his eyes and mouth like black paint, drooling down into his collar like an inky river. His eyes have inverted, pupils turned to slits and irises stained bright yellow-orange. Prompto feels fire along his face and squeezes his eyes shut when darkness creeps around the edges of them, turning the grey world of his cell black as a moonless night. He can’t help it then: he lets the scream poised at the end of his tongue roll out and fill the empty Keep with its horrid key, hoping he falls unconscious before the miserable song can come to an end.


	12. The Virtues of the Deathly Ill

When Prompto first met Ardyn, he hadn’t seemed like anyone worth noticing. Sure, he dressed weirdly and gave off some different mojo, but overall he seemed innocent enough. Gladio and Ignis had been wary of the dude in the long black coat from the start and Noct seemed to trust their judgment, keeping their distance even at their brief first meeting. Later that night at the Quay, Noct had asked him if he rang a bell.

“I dunno,” he had answered. “I think I’d remember a guy like that.”

They were sitting on one of two comfortable beds, Noct flipping through a magazine and Prompto scrolling through the day’s photographs, digital display of his camera shining brightly into his eyes. He had been lying horizontally on top of one of Noct’s thighs, hair flat from an earlier shower.

“Right?” Noct answered, page making an audible noise as he flipped it. “I’ve met a lot of people, mostly due to my dad, but I think I’d remember someone with hair like his.”

“And the way he talked?”

“Like someone from those plays we read in high school.”

They’d laughed about it before settling in for the night and the meeting hadn’t crossed his mind again. Gladio held on to the coin he’d thrown at them and Prompto would see him fondle it every now and again, look contemplative. Even at their second meeting, no red flags had jumped out from him. But thinking back, maybe they should have.

It was a cooler day in Lestallum than he’d been expecting. The waterfall had him freezing himself nearly to death and he was actually looking forward to triple digits and high humidity. But when they arrived back at the outpost, it was slightly overcast, patchy clouds covering the sun and casting dancing shadows along the ground. He played hopscotch with them by himself, nearly running into Noctis several times, explaining after the third instance that he still felt cold.

“Just be grateful it’s not super hot,” Noct said, stretching out an arm. He was wearing some black suede jacket with a behemoth embroidered on the back. He’d had two serious headaches in the past couple of hours, and the way he played it so cool made Prompto wonder if he was actually feeling alright or was just covering up his condition so Ignis wouldn’t worry. Either way, it was nice to see him walking around.

“You say that now, and those clouds’ll clear up real quick,” Gladio replied, walking beside Noct. Ignis assented with an adjustment of his glasses.

“Best to enjoy the cool weather while it lasts.”

“You guys can say that,” he replied, rubbing at his arms. “I might blow away if the wind picks up anymore.”

“We can put rocks in your pockets,” Noct replied, stooping down and picking up a stone. He chased Prompto with it for a minute, both giggling and shouting until Ignis asked them to calm down. It was when they reached the pier that Noct tossed aside the rock and made for the viewing lenses stationed beside the short brick wall separating them from the sharp green cliffs native to Cleigne. A swish of red-violet and black caught all of their eyes at what seemed like the same time.

“What a coincidence!” the man from Galdin Quay said in way of greeting. He had been leaning over to peer at the meteor but straightened, undeniable swagger dripping from his body when he walked. They’d all stopped unsteadily in their tracks, Gladio moving from slightly behind to in front of the Prince.

“I’m not so sure it is.”

The man sauntered toward them, head bent low. His eyes scanned the quartet before landing and staying on Noct, smile never leaving his mouth.

“Aren’t nursery rhymes curious things?”

Prompto and Noct had exchanged glances, and when he had tried the same with Ignis the man didn’t acknowledge him, just kept his gaze on the suspicious stranger. He continued, quoting some child’s poem.

_ “From the deep, the Archaean calls, yet on deaf ears, the gods’ tongue falls-- the King made to kneel, in pain, he crawls.”  _

Prompto was never the best in English but that rhyme was way too accurate to be a coincidence. He stepped forward towards the man, excited to learn how to help Noct.

“So, how do we keep him on his feet?”

From the corner of his eye he’d seen Ignis reach for him, but the man had already began walking closer. He maneuvered himself around Prompto, however, and spoke with his back turned. Only after thinking about it did Prompto realize Ignis had meant to pull him away.

“You need only heed the call. Visit the Archaean and hear his plea.”

He turned with a dramatic flourish.

“I can take you.”

Prompto really wanted to go wherever he said they should. This guy obviously had connections and he was willing to share. But the other three formed a huddle of sorts, bent on discussing the matter. He glanced back at the man and he had nodded as if to tell him to join them. Prompto wondered why he had looked at that guy as if to ask permission, but when he realized his face was betraying everything he was thinking he had turned and immediately joined his friends.

“We in?” Gladio asked seriously. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, tattoos dark against his hard skin. Noct expressed his hesitation and Prompto jumped in, cueing Gladio to play off of his words.

“We take a ride…” he said, gesturing to the taller man. Gladio caught his drift.

“But watch our backs.”

“Fair enough,” Ignis agreed. This was one of the few times Iggy hadn’t expressed a dissenting opinion. They turned back to the man, faces determined.

“Let’s do it,” Noct answered. The man shrugged and smiled in acceptance, obviously pleased. He began to make his way back towards the parking lot, talking at them the whole way.

“Come with me to the car park,” he invited. Prompto had made to run off and join him but his friends walked more slowly, mindful distance between them and the man, so he bounced on his feet until Gladio caught up and keyed in with them.

“I’m not one to stand on ceremony,” the man began, voice raised. “But this calls for a celebration! Please,”

He turned around bowed to them, feet still taking him backwards.

“Call me Ardyn.”

That was the first time he’d actually used his name. In a flurry of scarf and coattail he turned around and continued making his way up from the pier, boots hitting the steps and jangling like spurs. It was like they were in their own video game, getting directions from a mysterious NPC. He nudged Gladio.

“What do you think?” he whispered. Gladio shrugged, unsure.

“Just gotta keep Noct safe, is all. As long as he sticks near us, I can keep an eye on him, make sure nothing stupid happens.”

“To him or to Noct?”

“Both,” he answered. “He’s our ticket in, and probably out of the Disc, after all.”

He then turned to Ignis, catching the man’s attention.

“Guy’s gotta have serious political pull.”

Ignis nodded in return. He was obviously thinking, though about what always went over Prompto’s head. He had to have some hardcore circuitry going on in there to be able to keep up with everyone and everything concerning Noctis and their trip. Noct was quiet as usual, dark hair hardly moving with the wind.

They passed several parked cars, all nondescript. They reached the end of the lot, and parked in the last space was a magenta convertible with a thick white stripe down the center. Prompto couldn’t help it; he made a noise deep in his throat to disguise his laughter.

“Sweet whip,” he commented, the boys surrounding the car. Ardyn had leaned his weight against the driver’s side door, smile proud.

“She’s a dear old thing. Pales in comparison to your Regalia, but she’s never let me down.”

The car was remarkably clean and tidy from where he stood. Very much not this guy’s style, though. Prompto was expecting something classy-- like, really classy, but lived in. He talked like the kind of person with a chauffeur so to see this speedy little sports car was kind of a shock. But the more that he saw him interact with it the more sense it made. Ardyn opened the door and let Noct sit behind the wheel, his friend bouncing on the leather seat and situating himself for a mock-drive. Ardyn was leaned over, chin in his hand while he watched the Prince.

“Well, we should be off before the sun sets. Don’t want to miss our chance at seeing the Archaean at his full glory,” he had said in way of moving things along. “We’ll take two cars: I drive mine, and you drive yours. A convoy of sorts.”

Noct had eyed him mischievously from the seat below.

“What if I drive your car?” he’d asked, hands still on the steering wheel. Ardyn chuckled lightly at him.

“You may find the rental fees to be more than you bargained for.”

It was an undeniably creepy way of telling him to get his grubby mits off his car, but Noct didn’t react, just slid from the seat and planted himself on the ground, gesturing with both hands to the machine.

“It’s all yours.”

“Wonderful!” he’d exclaimed, smoothly climbing in and buckling himself.

“Oh! Though I do invite you to ride with me.”

He then turned to Ignis, smile apologetic.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me for sweeping your prince away, but he’s ever so keen.”

Noctis was already making his way to the passenger side, hand finding the door and opening it with a barely contained glee.

“I know you’ll be careful,” Ignis assented, one hand finding his hip. Ardyn started his car, right arm finding the top of the seat and foot revving the accelerator.

“Let us journey forth, shall we?” he’d said over the roar of the engine. Noct saluted to Prompto and he’d waved him off, the two of them taking the curve behind the remaining group and up to the street. When the rest of them reached the Regalia was when Ignis actually looked betrayed, settling into the driver’s seat and adjusting his mirrors with a meticulousness.

“What do you think of letting him go with that Ardyn guy?” Gladio asked, leaning forward in his seat. Prompto had glanced behind him into the back seat to see it empty beside the Shield.

“I see no harm in it,” Ignis admitted, though Prompto was certain he didn’t like the idea. Ignis turned to look behind him and reversed from their parking spot, probably unaware he was mimicking Ardyn by planting his arm along the back of the seat. He remembered smelling cologne, fine scent clinging to the Advisor’s leather gloves and starched shirt.

They reached the outskirts of town in no time, Regalia gliding to a halt beside Ardyn’s convertible, which sat humming at a shoulder in the road.

“Just to be clear,” he began, deep voice floating above the sound of double engines. “This isn’t a race, it is a chase. You’re not to pass me. Lose sight of me and you’ll lose your way.”

He was used to giving instructions, it seemed, and if Ignis was adversed to listening he didn’t show it.

“And no tailgating,” he added in, finger raised. “An accident would spoil the trip.”

“Alright, alright,” Noct interjected impatiently. “Let’s hit the road already.”

Ardyn wished the three of them a safe trip and sped off ahead, reaching the speed limit and not making to slow down any time soon. Ignis took longer to reach top legal speed, maintaining a respectable buffer between the two cars. Prompto thought this was a perfect photo opportunity.

“Noct’s callin’ me,” Gladio announced a few minutes into the ride. The three of them shared an awkward silence before he hit the answer button on his screen, audio set to speaker.

“Yeah?”

“Ardyn says to speed up.”

The wind in the background of the call almost drowned out the Prince’s voice, but Ignis seemed to hear him loud and clear. He pressed down on the accelerator and shortened the distance between them. When he stopped accelerating, Noct spoke up again.

“He’s wanting to know why you keep slowing down.”

“This is beyond the maximum limit,” Ignis called out, voice raised over the wind. Gladio had put it closer to him so he didn’t have to shout but brought it back towards himself to speak.

“Tell him we wanna get there with our bodies intact. You wearin’ your seatbelt?”

“Indeed, I am,” Ardyn chimed in over the phone. Prompto spied Ignis tensing slightly.

“And worry not: the young Prince is tucked safely into his seat.”

Gladio clicked off of speaker, saying a few words into the receiver before ending the call. He then leaned back into his seat, slightly annoyed.

“You think he knows we don’t trust him?”

“He would be remiss not to. He seems to trust  _ us, _ however, which puts us in an unusual situation,” Ignis added, eyes not leaving the road.

“First Galdin, now Lestallum… It’s too convenient to just be coincidence. I reckon he’s following us around,” Gladio surmised, one hand to his beard. Ignis wasted no time in replying.

“But to what end? That question bothers me deeply... as does his origin.”

“It’s hard for me to picture that guy with the Empire…” Prompto sighed, chewing on his bottom lip.

“But it’s even harder to imagine him as a Lucian.”

Ignis made a slight right, blinker clicking softly before shutting off. They went down a stretch of highway Prompto doesn’t recognize.

“Hey, is this even the way to the Disc?” he asked, pulling up a map on his phone. Just as he was almost done mapping their route, Ardyn’s car slowed and pulled to the side of the road, wheels smoothly gliding over the pavement and sliding into the parking lot of a rest stop.  Ignis followed suit, parking in-between the yellow lines of a visitor’s space. They piled from the car and met with Ardyn and Noctis, who had both hands clasped behind his head.

“What say we stop here for the night?” Ardyn asked, speaking voice sporting a lilt that was lost through the wind on the phone. It reminded Prompto of Mr. Scientia and the other older folks who worked at the Citadel. They all had this formal way of speaking that he chalked up to training and tradition, and something in Ardyn’s voice rang true to that, too, though his accent was more like the actors at the park than King Regis’, which sounded kind of Tenebraen at times. Gladio interjected.

“ _ What say  _ we continue to Cauthess?”

“The Archaean isn’t going anywhere!” Ardyn replied, affronted.

“Neither we, under your stewardship,” Ignis commented, Ardyn tutted at him.

“You talk as if I’ve held you hostage.”

“So, we make camp… with Ardyn,” Prompto said, trying to warn the others. They all seemed to catch his drift. Noct then spoke up for the first time since they stopped.

“Hell no.”

The three of them give him a surprised look. Gladio sighed, then made his way to the trunk. “Might as well get the tent up.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’ve never really been one for the outdoors,” Ardyn replied, eyes trained on Gladio. “I shall foot the bill, so let us stay at the caravan over yonder.”

He gestured to what was in fact a caravan parked at the edge of the store’s property. Without another word, he’d trailed off to the storefront to pay for a night’s room and left the four of them alone, reunited with Noctis. Prompto had been the first to speak as they gathered their supplies.

“So, did he say anything weird in the car?” he’d asked. Noct replied with a coolness.

“Nothing weirder than the rental fee comment. I asked him what he’d meant by that and he just laughed it off, saying I’d understand when I was older. Man, he creeps me out.”

“Says the guy who hopped into his car without a second thought,” Gladio commented, hauling several bags onto his shoulders.

“What can I say? His car is really cool.”

“We’re just thankful you’re alright,” Ignis added, a finalizing tone to his voice. “Shall you be riding with him tomorrow as well?”

“Sure. Though, only if he lets me drive. I seriously thought he’d have a classic Jaguar or something. Instead he’s got this sports car with insane horsepower. The wind felt awesome in my hair.”

“You’re lucky he wasn’t pulled over by the authorities.”

“He was only going 15 over.”

“That’s like 90 miles over to Iggy.”

“Anything else of interest?” Ignis asked. Noct was silent, then, before speaking.

“I had a headache. Only lasted a few seconds.”

“Seriously?” Prompto replied. Ignis placed a hand to his forehead for his temperature.

“You don’t feel ill. Thank goodness you weren’t driving, lest you put yourself and Ardyn in danger.”

“Pull over if you need to,” Gladio said from behind them, more bags hauled on his shoulders. Ignis had taken the Prince’s face in his hands and observed his eyes.

“Did you see anything new about the Disc?” he’d asked, thumbs on his cheeks. Noct let himself be manhandled, shaking his head no.

“Though, thinking back on it, Ardyn did say something really weird to me.”

“What was it?”

Before Noct could answer, the man reappeared, a set of keys swinging in circles around one finger.

“Our accommodations are secured, and the night is ours, boys. Feel free to get settled in.”

Ignis turned to regard him and Prompto moved in beside Noct.

“His Highness mentioned suffering from another headache during our short commute,” he said to Ardyn, whose hands swung together to fondle the keys.

“Ah, yes, those episodes of his do appear quite painful. I merely suggested that a nice swim would do him good. I hear Accordo is beautiful this time of year.”

Prompto felt his face flush as he watched for Ignis’ reaction. The man simply pushed his falling glasses further up his nose.

“Perhaps your comment was taken out of context: the Prince was due to be wed in Altissia, but the attack on Insomnia proved quite troublesome for our plans. All of the ports were shut down, as you know, and this is why we find ourselves still in the wilderness of the Lucian mainland.”

“Dear me,” Ardyn replied, one hand to his chest. “That’s simply awful! I’d heard news of the capital but never dreamed it would reach as far as Altissia. Tell me, what of the Oracle?”

“Still missing,” Prompto replied, hand on Noct’s arm. The Prince made to move away but brought his head between his hands in a fit of pain, mouth opening with a groan. Ignis was by his side in an instant.

“Gods,” Noct croaked out. “I-It’s getting worse.”

“We ought to get you to bed,” Ignis said, instructing Prompto to open the caravan door. Ardyn whistled at him and tossed the keys his way, Prompto catching them in both hands. While Ignis led Noct up the stairs and into bed, Prompto rejoined Gladio to finish unloading the rest of their items from the trunk. Ardyn had once again wandered off.

“Do you think he really didn’t know what happened to Luna and everyone?” Prompto asked him quietly, eyes watching the man’s back. Gladio glanced up then back down.

“I wouldn’t stare too long. This guy’s got eyes on the back of his head. That, or he’s got friends in high places. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“You’re strong, dude, but he’s actually really big,” Prompto said, swinging a backpack around his shoulders. “When I saw him next to Noct, it was like watching a daddy lion look down at his cub. Or a bird he’s about to eat. There’s something off about him but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Think maybe he’s one of the King’s cousins?” Gladio replied, shutting the trunk and locking the doors. “It would explain how he knew the ports were closed, and how he can get us past security at Cauthess.”

“Those barricades are Niff, though. Maybe he’s a leader of one of the protectorates, y’know? Those little nations outside the mainland?”

Ignis called Gladio from the caravan then, and he’d excused himself by bapping Prompto on the arm.

“Don’t get near him without one of us nearby. Make sure we can see you from the window.”

Prompto blew air from his mouth. “What, like he’s gonna shove me in his fast car and drive away?”

Gladio shrugged. “You never know.”

After Gladio had left, Prompto remembered checking on Noct before making his way to the convenience store for a snack. The Prince was lying on his back, arms folded on his belly, with a damp washcloth over his eyes. Gladio and Ignis had decided that the former would take the couch and the latter would sleep beside Noct, giving Ardyn the other twin bed. Prompto fussed, half-joking, half-serious about having to sleep beside Ardyn.

“There’s a pull-out futon across from the couch,” Gladio pointed out, jabbing a thumb behind him. Sure enough, out from the breakfast bench there slid a small futon. Before making his bed and cramping up the place, he took a look around the small store, scanning the shelves for something tasty for himself and Noct. He turned around and spotted Ardyn sitting at a small table, drink in one hand and magazine in the other. Nervously, snacks tucked in his arms, he’d approached him.

“Hey,” he greeted casually. Ardyn looked up from his publication with a smile.

“Hello there.”

“I, uh, wanna say thanks for paying for the caravan. Gives me room for snacks!” he’d said lightly, gesturing to the air with a packaged cake. The man nodded in acknowledgment of it.

“It’s no trouble. Our quarters may be cramped but certainly far more comfortable than braving the elements.”

“Totally. Like, I don’t know why Gladio likes camping so much. He says the ground is better for your back, but I just wake up feeling stiff after a night in the tent.”

“Don’t sleep well, do you?” he’d asked knowingly. Prompto shrugged.

“Sometimes. I always sleep better after Iggy-- err, Ignis cooks, but I think it’s a fair trade for a proper bed.”

He made his way around the small table and tentatively sat next to the man, whose legs were crossed over one another. Upon closer inspection, he was wearing something like a cowboy’s spurs, but more decorative than functional. Even sitting down he was very tall, probably somewhere in between Ignis and Gladio. Prompto was the shortest of them all, despite being less than an inch below Noctis, but he felt dwarfed by the man’s presence.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked, leaning over to inspect the magazine. Ardyn lifted it higher to show him the title.

“Fashion is one of my monetary faults, I’m afraid. A guilty pleasure of mine includes hats.”

“Coats, too?”

“Oh, yes! Though this one is my favorite of them all.”

Prompto reached for the sleeve of said coat, eyes wandering along the stitching.

“It looks really well-made. Did someone here do it?”

“It’s an import. My memory is lacking when it comes to remembering business’ names but I would recognize their work in any store.”

He licked one finger and used it to turn the page, eyes lighting up and body leaning in.

“See, this one here is simply charming!”

Prompto shared his publication and found where he pointed, finger poised on some purple overcoat.

“That’s a nice color,” he commented, suddenly feeling lame. He didn’t really know the technicalities of clothing.

“It is indeed. Though, this is not my style. More yours.”

“You think so?”

“Certainly! Though I would go for the red variant. The color of your hair would compliment it so.”

He turned to Prompto, hand slightly outreached, but stopped before making contact.

“May I?” he asked. Prompto swallowed but nodded, leaning his head forward. The man took a lock of his hair between his fingers, feeling its consistency. When his sleeve drooped down Prompto spied several raised scars around his wrist, but didn’t say anything. With the kind of work he seemed like he was into, it was almost mandatory that scars come along with it. Prompto had his own fair share, anyways.

“I’ve no doubt life on the road is hard,” Ardyn began, retrieving his hand. “But I admire how the lot of you always take time for the small things. One could easily let their hair remain a mess and yet I see effort from every corner.”

Prompto scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s cause I’m a little OCD, honestly. Iggy isn’t, at least I don’t think. He just likes stuff to be in order. Noct has an image to keep up, and… you know I really don’t know about Gladio. I don’t know if he uses mousse or if his hair is just that great on its own.”

“Quite voluminous,” Ardyn agreed. Prompto reached for his red hair in return for earlier, twirling a strand around one finger and letting it bounce back into place.

“Do you dye it or something? I’ve never seen this color of hair before.”

“You wouldn’t see it much of anywhere outside of a box,” he agreed, letting Prompto play with it. “I’ve been told it’s a dying trait among younger generations.”

Looking back, Ardyn was the first person he’d met in a long time who had no qualms about being touched. Prompto had always been, and remains, a touchy sort of person, so rooming around with three people who didn’t like physical contact outside of friendly punches or horseplay (Ignis’ caring touches excluded) made him realize just how much he didn’t care for personal space between himself and people he knew. Not like he knew knew Ardyn. But he seemed relatively cool and relatable, and was also the only person to have asked permission to touch Prompto’s hair. He remembers carding a hand through the ends of Ardyn’s wavy locks, watching the red strands pull between his fingers and marvelling at how they didn’t get caught once.

“You’re quite delicate with that,” Ardyn had said after a minute, attention at the magazine in his lap. Prompto had pulled away then, silently judging himself for stroking this guy’s hair.

“Ah, sorry. These hands, y’know. They get carried away.”

Ardyn had eyed him from his peripheral then, eyes following his hands when he gestured. He closed his magazine and stretched lightly.

“Well, it is getting rather dark out. I suppose you should buy your snacks and get settled in. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

“My snacks? Oh, yeah!”

He’d bounced to his feet and grabbed for them with vigor. When he looked up from the table, Ardyn was handing him a few gil. He reached out and took it, eyebrows furrowed and movements slow.

“If you’d rather I not…” Ardyn offered, head tilting. Prompto couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face then, eyes glancing around mischievously. Ardyn winked at him good-naturedly when he took the gifted money.

“Don’t tell the others.”

The rest of the night had passed rather peacefully, Ardyn regaling them with a few stories he knew. At one point, he’d suddenly leaned in, overtaken by the passion of his tale, and stroked Prompto’s chin, leaving as quickly as he’d came in. Prompto was taken aback by the gesture, glancing around at the others at the table. Ignis was leaning against the caravan and glaring daggers at the taller man while Noctis sat in a folding chair, feet pulled to his chest and spoon of yogurt to his mouth. He’d woken up a few hours later to walk around and drink water at Ignis’ suggestion. Gladio, in a turn of events, wasn’t sure what to do. His hands looked ready to break Ardyn in two but he sat there, half poised in his seat to stand, but the moment passed all too quickly and was gone as Ardyn continued his story, strange connection unacknowledged.

They all had settled into their beds, mock or otherwise, when Prompto thought about how his futon blocked the way to the bathroom.

“But what if someone needs to go?” he’d asked Gladio rhetorically.

“They can wait it out, or just step over you. I have to step over you guys all the time anyways.”

“Is that a short joke?”

“Not unless you want it to be. But really, it’s no big deal. Just go to bed.”

He did get woken up and stepped over by Gladio sometime during the night, his futon jostled around. He decided to sit up and wait it out until Gladio returned so he wouldn’t be bothered again. Rubbing his eyes and looking around, he swung his feet off the side and padded over to the only bedroom in the back. He saw Noct and Ignis sleeping soundly, the Prince bearing some remaining resemblance to having been tucked in. Ignis was pressed against the wall, glasses sitting in one hand atop his pillow. In the next bed sat a still-made comforter and unused pillow, moonlight washing over the fabric. How the hell had Ardyn left without waking him up?

Somehow, this large, unassuming man had floated past him and disappeared into the night, reappearing for when the four of them awoke at dawn. He was already up and dressed, coffee in hand and hat on his head when Prompto stood and stretched his aching muscles. Ardyn greeted each of them as they made their way through the camper, disregarding whether or not they said it back. Prompto seemed to be the only one who knew he wasn’t with them the whole night. He never did go out to discover the truth, to see where the man had ghosted off to without a trace. Maybe he would’ve found him wandering the countryside, tall grasses brushing his decorated ankles and snagging on his coat. Maybe he would’ve seen him sitting atop the caravan, hands clasped and used as a pillow, eyes on the stars. It could’ve been any number of things. Maybe he was sleeping on the ceiling and laughed at Prompto when he looked for him around the camper. Regardless, he hadn’t done anything weird that anyone knew of, and Noct hadn’t suffered a headache since the one that put him out of commission the evening before. All in all, the guy didn’t seem like much trouble. Prompto didn’t even mind when he got them unrestricted access to Titan at the bottom of the Disc simply by yelling “It’s me! Open up, would you?” at the gate guards. Who, again, were Niffs. Honestly, the bell should’ve dinged much sooner, but he couldn’t blame himself when Noctis, or even Ignis didn’t recognize him until he literally appeared from the sky in an MT ship, pulling them from the hellfire of the Archaean’s wrath. While his friends were up in arms about the fate of the Regalia, Prompto was more concerned with the fact that he’d just risked life and limb to sweep them to safety, even calling off the troopers who were supposed to have Noctis’ head. And for several instances after that, he’d come in the nick of time, swooping in to save them when things got too hairy. Aranea, Noct could handle. She was only playing with him at the time, anyways. But when Ravus took out Gladio with a single hit, daemonic arm pulsing with power, Prompto was more than grateful to see a flock of red hair bounce onto the scene, shooing the Commander away like one would a child. Honestly, were it not for the Chancellor in the black coat, they would’ve been done for several times over, and Noct may have had to take the rest of his journey alone.

Then again, they also would’ve still had Lunafreya. And Iggy’s eyesight. And the entire city of Altissia.

When he’d left-- been forcefully separated from, more like-- his group, Ignis was far from being okay. He’d fallen asleep on Prompto’s arm on the train to Gralea and woke up shaking, fingers hardly able to keep hold of his shades as he pinched them off and pinched the bridge of his angular nose.

“What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?”

“No, I… it hurts.”

An open admission of pain wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Ignis had always been so strong and so unwilling to share his pain with others so he wouldn’t become a burden. His selflessness didn’t go unpunished, however, so his reward was waking up from seeing terrible things to realizing he couldn’t see either the good or bad anymore. And frankly, Prompto didn’t blame Ardyn for it.

Sure, he was there actively trying to take down Leviathan as Noct was forging a covenant with her, as well as thoroughly stabbing the heirless Oracle, messenger of the gods through divine birthright, in cold blood with a dagger so she would drown in the ensuing typhoon. But Titan also had a hand in it by breaking apart the water-based city and raising deep-sea rock for attacks on the Hydraean. Leviathan summoned giant walls of water to crush the city and kill the future king, angry at his and the Oracle’s perceived sacrilege. A person could even blame Noctis for summoning her in the first place when he knew hundreds of thousands were in danger of losing their lives and homes. But the blame game was pointless. Iggy had stated more than once that his eyesight was a small sacrifice to make during their long, hard-fought battle, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Hanging now from his crucifix, eyeballs swimming against his irritated eyelids, Prompto sluggishly attempts to lift his head and speak.

“What did you mean,” he says, unaware and kind of not caring if Ardyn is in the room at all. “That Noct would understand when he was older?”

He’s greeted with silence, the vision of his still feet focusing in and out.

“Did you mean a few days, or months? Cause he’s technically older now than he was then. When you were a good guy. I think.”

Still nothing. He’s over the taste of copper draining down his throat and just wants to lie down. Hell, he’d take the crappy futon from the gas stop in Cleigne, or even the Ebony dispensers he’d curl up to in Besithia’s lab when he was feeling lonely. A hot cup of Ebony sounds really good right now. Who was he talking to?

“Prompto?”

“Good guys… don’t push people off of trains.”

“Prompto?!”

“Good guys don’t pretend to be your friend then hit you with your own pistol.”

“We gotta get him down from there.”

“Can someone explain what’s happening? Is he suspended? There ought to be a switch nearby to deactivate what’s holding him.”

“Right. Hey Prompto, hang in there, buddy. We’re here.”

“Maybe I should’ve gone outside… seen where he went… with someone to talk to, he could’ve…”

A buzzer sounds and Prompto is thrown forward, body weightless. He lands against something tough and struggles to breathe, chest tight. Strong arms reach out and lay him down gently, and when the tough surface moves up and down like breathing, it’s like his mind has a breakthrough. More like the blood from his legs can finally move to the rest of his body like normal, so his brain can actually think now. He lifts his head, wide-eyed, and nearly meets Gladio’s chin.

“Woah, slow down,” he says, both arms still steadying Prompto. His vision blanks out for a second and he leans into Gladio’s chest, forehead meeting skin.

“You alright?” he hears rumble above him. He nods, lump caught in his throat.

“Yeah, just…”

“Is he hurt?” he hears Ignis ask sincerely. When his eyes clear up he peeks a tip of a cane against the grates and a pair of fine leather shoes. Big hands close around his face and bring him up.

“He’s got some pretty sick cuts here, but nothing too bad. Hey, you all good now?” Gladio responds, quickly giving him a once-over. He nods again and reaches for Gladio’s hands instinctually.

“Mmhm. I’m good. I’m so good right now.”

“Good. Noct, you wanna say hi?”

On the opposite side of Ignis stands the Prince, eyes guiltily averted. He kneels down and Gladio surrenders Prompto’s arms, watching as he sways from the movement, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” Noct greets. Prompto is suddenly very interested in his hands in his lap but forces himself to look up, lips pinched in a line.

“Hey, dude.”

He revels in triumph when his voice doesn’t break. Noct blows air from his nose in a short laugh.

“You sound like shit.”

“But I bet I look smokin’ hot, huh?”

They laugh together. He glances upwards and sees Ignis shuffling unsurely on his feet.

“You alright Iggy?”

The man’s attention turns on him and he hesitates before speaking.

“Are you… alright? Have you been eating?”

“No, not for a minute.”

Noct pokes his ribs and it startles him.

“You’re all skin and bones, literally. ‘m glad we found you when we did.”

Gladio and Noct take either of his arms and help him to his feet. He takes a few steps, remembering how to walk, before straightening his spine with an audible series of cracks. Gingerly, Ignis passes his cane to Gladio and reaches outwards, steps small. Prompto guides himself into his waiting hands, the soft leather meeting his skin and fingers immediately moving around, inspecting. His eyes flicker behind his eyelids, searching for hints of wounds as his hands massage from his shoulders to his ribs. He makes a face when the clothes he finds there hang from Prompto’s body, ribs and hips jutting out from beneath the fabric. He trails his hands back up and gently runs them up his neck, thumbs finding his cheekbones. Prompto twitches when one grazes his bloodied nose and scratches away at the dried blood there. The other finds the gash at his hairline, prodding for signs of infection.

“Did Ardyn do this?” he asks. Prompto desperately wants to collapse into him, to remind him that he’s here and he didn’t fall into a bear trap or get pushed from a train. This pillar of strength before him has always been his shining influence and he wants nothing more than to kiss his scarred hands and tell him everything is alright. Ignis answers for Prompto, anger boiling beneath his understanding.

“They will heal, undoubtedly. But I believe we can all agree that Ardyn must be stopped. We won’t be separated again, and we won’t let ourselves be overtaken so quickly.”

“Damn right,” Gladio agrees, patting Prompto’s back. Noctis joins in, apologetic smile turning steadfast.

“Let’s go get this son of a bitch.”

 

Later, in the cooler metal room of one of Zegnautus’ only safe havens-- a communal bedroom with several sets of bunk beds-- the group decides to rest before attempting to brave the facility once more. There’s one functional shower so they each take turns, Prompto pleading with the others to let him go last despite their fears of infection or worse. He thumbs a scratchy towel in his lap, worn strings twirling around his fingers and making them white when he pulls them taught. The bed sinks down and he registers someone behind him. A wall of black sits facing away from him, back hunched over behind his dark jacket.

“Hey, I’m… sorry,” Noct starts. It’s quiet in the room, the distant sound of running water keeping them company.

“For what?”

The Prince sounds exasperated, even angry when he speaks. Prompto knows it’s not against him.

“For falling right into his trap. And… for hurting you like that.”

“I know, right?”

He hears Noct sit up straighter.

“How could you ever do such a horrible thing. After everything we’ve been through!”

A beat.

“Nah… you’re not the only one who fell for it.”

He turns, slightly at first, then tucks one leg under him, body facing Noctis.

“I knew you’d come. I just had to keep telling myself that I couldn’t die until then. Not until you saw me, and told me that I was real. That everything wasn’t my fault, and… and that I’m the real me.”

He takes a shaky breath in, nose stinging with wounds past.

“Now, if Ardyn had his way, you wouldn’t have found me in the first place. Or, at least without more trouble than you already had.”

Noct still doesn’t turn to face him. He continues.

“The Regalia?”

“Dead. We had to leave her outside the Keep. Niff forces bombarded us, and the car was the only thing between us and fucking annihilation.”

Prompto nods sagely.

“Bet that hurt, huh?”

Noct doesn’t answer for a moment, hand reaching up and rubbing his forehead.

“... Yeah.”

Prompto shuffles again, getting comfortable. Despite it, he crawls over the crinkling mattress and slides in beside Noct, shuffling his butt closer and closer until they’re nearly touching. He works his jaw.

“I see you decided to rock the Ring.”

“Had to,” he sighs, flipping his hand back and forth. “Can’t summon the Armiger or use spells until we knock out that tech. Iggy says it’s more or less the same stuff that they brought to Lestallum.”

Prompto tries to pull his gun from said Armiger but nothing happens. It’s like his sleeve has been caught in a closed door and he’s yanking as hard as he can to free it. His hand returns to his lap.

“I say,” Noct begins, conviction stirring Prompto to his guard. “That once this is all over, we break down the borders and come together as one nation.”

He gives Prompto a double-take then crosses his arms, leaning against the bedpost.

“I mean, what does it matter where you’re from anyway?”

Prompto lets a small laugh escape his mouth, eyes searching his very real friend.

“Y’know, you sounded like a real king there for a second.”

“‘bout time, isn’t it?” he scoffs in return. Prompto kneels closer to him and all but crawls into his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Noctis returns the gesture, hands pushed under his arms and gripping his back. Prompto shudders when he breathes, chest aching, limbs burning. The circles that Noct pats into his shoulders help, his warmth seeping into Prompto and making him whole again. He shuts his eyes and lets himself be held there, voice quiet.

“Did you worry about me?”

Noct starts but doesn’t push him off.

“Of course I was worried! What kind of question is that?”

He laughs against his shoulder, tears pinching the sides of his eyes.

“Ardyn tried to imitate you, you know? Even fooled me a couple of times into thinking you were there in that cell with me.”

He shrugs, pulling to separate their bodies. Noct fixes a strand of dark hair that’s fallen into his face.

“Did he try to talk like me? Or use my weapons?”

“I’d caught on after a while and played along. He wouldn’t give me back my gun, though.”

“Aww, what? That nice one I got you?”

Noct smacks his lips indignantly when Prompto nods.

“Man, I worked my ass off to get that. Next time I see him, I’m kicking his ass and taking it back.”

They laugh together for a moment, chuckles fading like the distant shower water. Noct turns to face him fully and Prompto meets his eyes.

“I’m gonna make the world a better place,” he states, expression hard. He smiles, determination evident.

“You with me?”

Prompto can’t help it: he chokes back a sob, swallows it with the rest of his feelings, and smiles back.

“Yeah… ever at your side.”


	13. Tepid Waters

Ardyn recalls the time when even deep in the mountains, removed from the public and the government, springtime in Verstael’s lab kept the outside grass lush and green. He’d been granted clearance to leave the facility a year after awakening there and absorbing the Infernian into himself. Verstael, personally, was glad to have him away. While he wandered the valleys and dancied lazily through fields of yellow, orange, and pink flowers, he could forget just how broken the man’s psyche had become in comparison to his arrival at the facility. The Infernian had crushed him. Left him hollow in a way Verstael had admittedly never expected. He kept secrets, leapt around questions as if he were a dancer in a ballet performance. Frankly, it was exhausting. He didn’t like not knowing things, and what bits of information the man did divulge left him hungry for more, appetite never fully satiated. His body told him concrete things, at least. Vitals functioned differently, blood flowed in the opposite direction sometimes as if in a vacuum. It was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. So when he’d insisted they call off whatever affair they’d haphazardly begun, Verstael was relieved. He no longer felt an obligation towards him besides that of a coworker. Definitely not an equal. In fact, he wasn’t sure where the line existed anymore, or if there were multiple lines on multiple levels concerning their relationship. What remained true was that he was an absolute madman, combing the facility in search of hats, watches, and scarfs, leaving trails and caches of things like a possessed racoon. There was a brief stint where he’d stumbled into a maintenance closet and used the cleaning bleach to dye his hair bright blond, wacking at it with a knife he’d sequestered from the kitchen. It was an uneven and choppy job compared to the first time he’d snipped it off and it bothered Verstael more than he cared to admit. He’d left his roots untouched so soft, daring red peeked out from behind strands of brutalized yellow and brackish gold, contrasting horribly in the lights of the lab. Some of the bleach had spilled onto his clothes and left them spotty and ruined. After he’d waltzed around, damp, stringy hair swinging from just below his ears, he’d slipped the kitchen knife into the mouth of one of the assistants and tried to make him swallow it down. Verstael had intervened before he could get it past the man’s tongue and ushered him aside, striking him across the face. Ardyn hadn’t responded to neither that nor the reprimand that followed, eyes drooping lazily out of sync. In his defense, he offered some gibberish about embracing his heritage and trying to bring the world back into balance. He then asked Verstael for blue hair dye, earning him another smack across the cheek. He’d confined him to his room for three days, listening to the sounds of books being torn and aggravated yelling when the fires he started activated the sprinkler system.

Those times were rough, indeed. But when his levels were evened and he’d not taken anything else to his hair, red reclaiming the real estate of his head and lengthening back down to his broad shoulders, he was charming, sharp, and full of inventive genius. Leaving the lab was good for him, it seemed. He was a hippie of sorts before being imprisoned and enjoyed the fresh air of the outdoors. Once, he’d neglected to remember the time and didn’t return for three days. The lab’s occupants grew worried, some thinking he had fallen from the mountain and died in a valley somewhere, others claiming he’d ventured off to Gralea on his own. Most of them didn’t mind either way, because as long as he was gone, no one got their souls sucked from their faces and bodies deposited in increasingly grotesque manners. If Verstael was honest with himself, he hadn’t noticed the man’s absence besides for the lack of vermin deposited on his desk at strange hours and idleness of the cleaning crew. Ardyn had become less at the center of his research and more to the left or right of it, samples from his body sustaining chemical analysis more and more often. Verstael had felt a strange, intrusive need to consume it, chalking his madness up to sleep deprivation and overcaffeination.

It was a quiet day in spring when Ardyn pops his head into Verstael’s station, flowers clinging to his person and carrying the smell of a natural creek. It was one of his better days, it seemed.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” he asks, saddling himself on the empty leather chair beside the scientist’s desk. Verstael nods, somewhat grateful to be looking away from black printed numbers on sheets. He holds two cups of coffee in his hands and passes one to Verstael to join the three empty paper ones littering a corner of his desk.

“How goes the research?”

Verstael shrugs, mouth sipping at the hot beverage.

“Progress is progress. I suppose you’ve something to share regarding your side of things.”

Ardyn crosses his legs and smiles.

“Perhaps not concerning me, but rather a mutual friend of ours.”

He taps the side of his head with a finger.

“He tells me that something is coming. The earth outside is shaking, changing in ways it hasn’t in many millennia. Men may lie and cover their truths but the star will always tell of things in vivid detail.”

“This is concerning.”

“Indeed.”

Verstael scoots towards him and beckons him forward. Ardyn obliges, smile creasing the sides of his mouth when Verstael takes his face in either of his hands. The scientist nods after a moment.

“You appear awake. Could this be another hallucination?”

His smile recedes and he sighs, standing and pacing the office.

“No, dear Chief, is it not. You spend so much of your time in your numbers, you fail to remember what the world is like outside of them.”

Verstael spins in his chair and follows where the man walks, drinking from his cup.

“And I suppose you know what it is despite the separation.”

A nod.

“There are forces, garnering power to oppose us as we speak. I advise we take the upper hand while the advantage is ours to do so.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Verstael spits. He turns back to his desk. Ardyn clops up to him and leans over his shoulder.

“You’re not going to listen? After everything I’ve already said?”

“Make your point clear or leave me be.”

“I only learned to speak in tongues from the best.”

He plants either of his hands on the armrests and spins Verstael’s chair around to face him. He sinks a knee into the fabric and straddles him, face playful.

“Come now, be a friend and hear me out.”

He’s playing with Verstael’s tie now, slipping it between both hands. Verstael leans his head on one hand, gesturing with the other.

“Go ahead, then.”

Ardyn smiles triumphantly.

“The Infernian tells me that our little experiments have not gone unnoticed. Someone out there knows and wants to stop us.”

“Who are they?”

“Only the Ice Goddess, Shiva. She’s awake.”

Verstael stiffens in his seat.

“The Glacian?”

“Yes.”

Ardyn plucks a purple flower from his vest and sticks it behind Verstael’s ear, smoothing back the loose strands.

“She senses that her lover is in trouble and seeks to free him from his confines.”

He pauses to take a breath, hands returning to Verstael’s tie. He’s not resting his entire weight on his lap.

“Though she’s not powerful enough to reach us here. Much of her magic was used in the War so long ago that only the distress of another Astral was strong enough to rouse her from slumber.”

“Ifrit has told you this? That he wishes to be free?”

“In a way. His will is mine to command, though be it far from me to control his heart. It calls for her, to again be reunited and watch o’er the mortals of Eos. In doing so he has alerted me to the Glacian’s location on earth.”

Verstael lets a smile slip and Ardyn notices.

“Does that excite you?”

He gives the tie a gentle tug and pushes away the buttons beneath it, revealing the light, teeth-shaped scar on his neck. Verstael reaches out and inspects the line across Ardyn’s throat, a reminder of a battle long since fought.

“What shall we do with her once we’ve ascertained her allegiance?”

“Allegiance need not be ascertained. We are to prepare the army, locate her, then kill her.”

The scientist frowns, fingers dropping from the man’s neck.

“Is death the only option?”

“She seeks the destroy our army. Our research. It is blasphemy in the eyes of the Divine for man to function above them, to share in their powers in an effort to improve their condition.”

He vacates Verstael’s lap and tussles his own hair, ends still bleached. He downs the contents of his cup in one go and plops down in his own chair, leg swinging back over the other. Verstael contemplates.

“To not glean the ancient knowledge of a limitless being, but instead to end her life at the suggestion of her corrupted lover before she regains full power, is a solid enough plan.”

He levels Ardyn with a gaze.

“The time outside has done you many favors.”

He looks away, lip between his teeth.

“But to command the army to the location of the Glacian would require the Emperor’s consent. He knows not of how we could prove this maneuver fruitful, let alone of your initial merge with the Infernian. Where is the Glacian as of now?”

“She rests in the Ghorovas Rift, where I believe it was you who told me their hypothesis concerning this long ago,” Ardyn answers dutifully. Verstael huffs.

“This is proving far easier than anticipated. Come, Ardyn. We shall formulate a plan to inform the Emperor of her coming demise. Let us see how well he fares against your methods of trickery.”

 

Within an hour, the two of them secure commands to lead the Imperial Army.

The Emperor was more than pleased to see their numbers, maps, and testimonies to the rising threat. An eternal winter, Ardyn told him, one to throw the nation into monetary chaos should the Glacian succeed. Snow and frost would halt the work in Cartanica, slowing the economy to a painful halt. He was not eager to learn that the Infernian had escaped.

“To where would the Divine go but back to the heavens?” he asked rhetorically, blue hologram flickering with his real-time movements. “Should the Glacian throw the world into ice and the Infernian regain the power to melt it to the ground, Eos would be in great danger.”

“The Infernian has returned to the Rock of Ravatough,” Verstael answers. “Our data shows elevated temperatures in the core and a rise in magic surrounding the entirety of the mountain.”

“Foolish were we to remove him from internment,” Emperor Aldercapt agrees. “He wanted naught but to return to the flames from which he garners his infernal power. A far slower method to regaining stamina, I would venture to say, than as opposed to joining the Blade God, wherever he may reside.”

Verstael agrees with him without further explanation.

“I shall send word to our generals that they are to arrange contact with you and Izunia to lead the assault. I expect you’ll provide them with weapons capable of felling a god…?”

“By your grace, we will see it done.”

“The newly-finished Zegnautus Keep awaits you here in Gralea. It offers privacy and technology far more accommodating than that of your current station. I will see your transfer arranged within the month to begin work on these plans of yours.”

The Emperor turns on Ardyn.

“And you, Izunia. We are indebted to your knowledge. Chief Besithia’s research continues to flourish with your continued cooperation. I would see more of it done.”

Ardyn bows customarily, hat forgone for the occasion.

“I would never believe in any less.”

“Go then, on my orders. Colonel Ulldor will be sent to assist you.”

He blinks away with the projector’s light, signalling the end of their meeting. Ardyn glances at Verstael.

“What?”

“I was under the impression you worked alone all of the time.”

“I am forced to play nice with the Empire’s myriad rats and sycophants, on destable occasion.”

Verstael sneers, turning on his heel and gathering his clipboard.

“I’ve heard tellings of this Ulldor. Younger than myself and his youthful haste reflects it. Despite his numerous achievements, his failures rank among the worst in recent history.”

“Sounds like he will fit right in with us.”

“As long as he stays out of my way we shall have no qualms.”

The lab is sent abuzz with the news of the transfer. A skeleton crew will be left behind to manage Verstael’s facility while the man himself, Ardyn, and almost all of the remaining assistants move temporarily to the capital. The Emperor’s orders held no specifics on just how temporary this move would be. A few years, at least. A decade at most. While Verstael resented the loss of privacy he felt he agreed with the principle of Zegnautus. A massive facility dedicated to the research and construction of military-grade arms, based directly in the center of the most populated and well-guarded city in the nation. The purpose of the Keep would remain a secret from the public, of course, their taxes funnelled into the gargantuan structure and associated accommodations. Recent graduates and senior scientists alike would be brought on board the project which Verstael did not yet have a name for, and the army would be stored in the wings opposite the science side of things. It was an exciting prospect to finally get to the meat of the Empire’s conquering forces.

And yet, Verstael still had no ideas on what could kill a god.

He still wasn’t sure killing her was the right idea in the first place. If Ardyn could daemonify and absorb one deity alongside countless mortal souls, what was one more, icier being? He’d never seen it coming, yet now that it was here he wanted to test its limits. Just how much more could Adagium take before being broken beyond use? He figured, as he watched the man pick through boxes and boxes of clothes for something more “capital-worthy,” not much more. He didn’t need a spreadsheet to tell him he was already operating on another plane. Not insane because he made too much sense sometimes. But not sane, either.

On a night where the sun fell far later than usual, he wound his way to Ardyn’s room and sat with him, idle chat filling the air. He had taken to emulating a somewhat decent sleep schedule and forced himself to eat at least one meal a day. This was preposterous, Verstael stated, and Ardyn agreed, but if it prevented any inquiries into his rather esoteric nature then it was worth the hassle. Most days, Verstael himself went on two hours of sleep and a half dozen cups of coffee and he knew those ground-in habits wouldn’t change with the scenery, as detrimental as they were. He could be a brain in a tank and not care as long as he got to keep doing his work.

“Are you frightened?”

He turns to Ardyn, face blank.

“Of what?”

“Leaving this place behind. It’s been your home for so long, I can say with some certainty that the world outside has changed around you. You may well not fit in amongst your colleagues.”

He snorts in response and folds his arms.

“My colleagues will have to learn to operate with me or they will find themselves in the sights of my newest weapons.”

Ardyn chuckles airily.

“And what weapons do you plan to bring to their attention? There shall be no more secrets in the iron Keep in Gralea, you know. All goings-on brought to the light.”

He thinks, sighs, and ruffles his hair.

“I know not. I was hoping to brainstorm with you.”

“I’m honored,” he replies, touching a hand to his chest. “What are your initial thoughts?”

“The smaller weapons I’ve experimented with here could potentially be produced on a mass-scale.”

“And yet…?”

“I have the processes catalogued with a list of materials and approximate times. However, many of them are unsustainable. They simply can’t be mined from Cartanica or grown in a laboratory setting. Reproducing those results in Gralea could be impossible.”

Ardyn nods, listening intently.

“And how effective were they against divine magics?”

Verstael looks away, hand on his goatee.

“100% ineffective.”

The man nods and Verstael sighs.

“Further research could take years more than we’re prepared to give. We’ll have a larger staff, yes, and far more financial reach. But we must consider this project from all angles if it is to be impermeable.”

“I have a suggestion, if you have the patience for it.”

Verstael waves a hand, signalling Ardyn to continue. He gets into a crouching position from his chair and perches his hands on the back rest, the thing turned around under him.

“Daemons.”

“Daemons?”

Ardyn nods passionately.

“You’ve subjugated them. I can command them. We can harvest the daemon’s souls and place them into one, large being capable of devastating a god. An entire earth, given the extent of our ambition. We merely need to create a device capable of withstanding the transfer of plasmodia and miasma to it and the ability to send it back out in the form of power. Sustainable, and highly renewable. But, most importantly,”

He presses two of his fingers together in a visual reference to his words.

“Highly, highly destructive.”

Verstael is silent, hand to mouth. He lifts his fingers up and gesticulates.

“You’re serious, yes?”

“Quite.”

The scientist stands and considers the air.

“That is ambitious. Overzealous, some might venture. Verging on vain.”

Ardyn follows him from his chair, smile plastered to his lips. He sweeps his own hands outwards.

“What other choice do you have?”

“Dozens. Given the time, I could produce many more.”

“But as you’ve said yourself, time is a luxury. The solution just so happens to be in your lap and you’re tempted to look elsewhere. Your confidence impresses me, Chief.”

“Cut the sharp attitude, would you?” Verstael spits, voice deep and baritone. “Some may say this, and I would be among them were it anyone else making the suggestion. But by virtue of the fact that it is you I cannot find myself to discount it. For you yourself are an enigma, born from the very sickly phenomenon we presently discuss.”

Ardyn purses his lips.

“Favoritism cannot exist in Zegnautus, I’m afraid. The rules are not yours to create alone.”

“As if you know so much of the damn place. Besides, it is no secret I value your insight. We are of the same mettle: while one exists, the other relies upon him and vice versa.”

“Tell me again of your childhood.”

Verstael shifts, unsure of what lead to the change in conversation. He retorts, question forming in his mind.

“The tale of yours is one far less regaled. Why not grace us with this new insight instead?”

Ardyn turns the chair back and sits in it correctly.

“That, I fear, is off-limits.”

“Come, I’m sure there’s enough fruit there to suffice us for a time.”

“You misunderstand. I cannot tell you of it because I don’t remember it. I’m afraid those memories were lost somewhere in the jumble and the ruckus.”

He taps his chin before continuing.

“Were there a way to recover such missing things. But, without longing for what we cannot have, who are we, really? In which direction do our ambitions lie?”

“Our ambitions lie not in the future nor the past, but rather the present,” Verstael answers. “Progress is something one creates now and does not leave to memory or an older self.”

“Wise words indeed,” Ardyn nods. “Perhaps when this is done, you could author a book. Do avoid the concept of sharing, however.”

“Say it if you must, but I will include anecdotes concerning your fondness for prying. You offer nothing in return for information and yet you are readily given it. My readers will beware this train of behavior.”

“Dear Chief, I have so much yet to offer!”

His grin takes up almost all of his lower face.

“You need only ask.”

Something passes between them that Verstael takes a moment to identify. Camaraderie. Fellowship. A certain understanding he believes, without restraint, exclusive to circumstance.

Were their positions switched, or Ardyn ended in the care of any other scientist, politician, or various detestable fiend, their lives would not have intersected so. If the gods truly exhibited control over the lives of mortals they very well may have crossed the two by mistake. Only by the stars and the orbital pull surrounding them did forces of nature such as themselves come to work as one.


	14. You, Me, and Our Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baboom, here's an extra chapter for today cause y not

Since the fading of the dawn and the reign of the Scourge, humanity has scrambled to adjust to a world without light. Ash and dust blocks the sky and only when one squints can they make out the approximate time of day, sun and moon whirling circles around one another, heavens still in tandem by their definitions, but what do the lives of those below know when their beauty is clouded by layers of sickly miasma? It’s been, what, four years? Four years since the Chosen King left his people behind to fend for themselves in this dreary shell of a world. Ardyn must admit, it’s not as exciting as he hoped it would be. Every day he watches daemons prowl the land, survivors scavenging the bones of the world for supplies, bodies tired and threatening to fall apart within the span of an hour. He never intervenes when the two clash. Whichever way the battle goes, the next one may change the course. Or the one after that. The victor of one may well be cut down in the next, fates intertwined for but a moment before separating, strings never to cross paths again. He mostly sticks to Insomnia, charred walls offering no more than scant satisfaction. But when he does exit the former capital, pungent smells of fire and brimstone sticking in clouds to his person, he watches these battles with what attention he can muster. Four years is nothing in comparison to the couple millennia he spent locked on Angelguard. Without the sun his scars burn and twist in an eerie satisfaction, reveling in the state of the world. He swears they’re laughing at the irony of it all. He can go outside any time he pleases, dressed however he likes, but ultimately decides to leave well enough alone. These clothes have kept him warm and safe for many years and he sees no reason to change them. A few additions here, subtracting some there, but he reasons that there’s no reason to change the unbroken. He hardly notices the shades on the sides of his eyes anymore, fleeting, fluttering things that disappear as soon as he registers them there. They’re more plentiful in Insomnia. So much so that he begins to wonder, without reservation, if he has fallen a little too far off the edge. Walks through the outer lands help to clear his mind.

On a night as dim as the last, a time of morning no one cares to name, he can see past the smoke and the ash caking the sky, the moon and all its dusty craters watching silently beyond. He traverses to the top of a large, natural fixture, rough stones worn wind-smooth over time. The white light beyond the greenish-grey haze paints his face like fluorescents.

“How does it feel,” he calls out, voice echoing across the vast, dead grassland. “To be so helpless? To only see and not to touch the majesty of the world you so long shared with the sun? To be prayed to for respite and find yourself unable to provide any to hungry, dying souls, drenched in darkness and squalor?”

His voice sinks back into his chest as he watches, unblinkingly, the passage of miasma like so many scattered clouds. The moon doesn’t respond to his taunts. He grimaces, kicking a few scattered stones from atop his natural soapbox.

“Were you a being such as myself you would understand these sentiments.”

He leaps down from the stone precipice without much pomp, forgoing climbing the way he took up. The wind flies past his ears and drowns out the ringing for just a few, glorious moments, equilibrium shaken by gravity. He lands softly in a bed of greyed flowers, colors and perfumes withered to nothing but scraps of rice paper. They crunch beneath his boot and catch on the end of his coat like seeking tendrils. He brushes them aside, making for the great, wild openness of the central Lucian grasslands.

After walking for hours on hours he finds a singular trailer house surrounded by a series of floodlights. It hums with electricity, a consistent buzzing that annoys his ears. He stops by the generator and delivers to it a swift kick, sparks flying when it threatens to shut down. The front door opens almost immediately, occupant sporting a long pistol and packing another on his thigh. He scouts the immediate area, cautious eyes searching for anything unusual in the distance. Ardyn circles round the side of the trailer, legs taking him in a slow arc to the door.

The occupant turns on him and fills him with lead, six shots landing dead in the center of his chest.

He gasps, breath taken away for a moment, dark blood oozing from beneath his vest. The man swings a floodlight on him, curses, then disappears back into the trailer. Ardyn’s breathing hitches when he reaches up, mouth falling open when he digs a finger inside himself and plucks out two bullets, their golden cases shining in the lights washing over him. He feels his skin prickle and notes that this isn’t any ordinary light. The occupant returns and steps down the small set of metal stairs, cocking a large shotgun and leveling it at Ardyn.

“Now now, let’s not be hasty,” he says, hands raised in surrender. The man fires a round at him, hard pellets stinging into his shoulder. He doubles over and the man cocks the gun again, large, spent shell clattering into the grass. He fires the second one and it hits him in the head, left eye going black and nerve endings sent alight with pain. The man cocks it a third time but Ardyn holds out a hand to stop him, teeth blanketed in blood when he smiles. He waits until he’s sure another shot isn’t coming before speaking.

“What a warm welcome. You’ve not been idle, it seems.”

Past the floodlights he can see a shock of bright blond hair, lean, muscled arms bare outside of a red tank top. Prompto Argentum doesn’t lower his gun but instead narrows his eyes, bright, burning things set against the white of his skin and the blue-black shades of his lower lids. He sees that Ardyn is in pain, lowers his gun to his side, and approaches the half-fallen man, hard eyes following the descent of black blood from his open cranium down the front of his shirt.

“What do you want?” he asks. Ardyn brings a hand to his wounded eye and feels nothing where there should be something. He reasons the gunshot blew that part of his face off.

“Can’t an old friend stop by?” he asks, picking burrs from his coattail. He stiffly straightens and pushes on his neck, mouth hissing in pain when more blood bubbles up and cracks in his ears. A rather chunky glob falls past his mouth and plops to the ground, the grass below sizzling and turning grey.

“Sounds like you want to be filled with more holes,” Prompto states plainly. He simply watches, disillusioned as Ardyn covers one nostril and blows out a bony blockage from the other, intact eye watering. He levels the boy with what he hopes is a serious gaze.

“You’ve been training.”

“A person’s gotta survive somehow.”

“However did you become so cold?”

“How could you beat the shit outta me then torture me for a week?”

He feels an eyebrow raise beneath the drying blood.

“A week, was it? So short for the amount of fun we packed into it.”

Prompto lifts the gun to his face, retrains his sights down lower, and blasts at one of Ardyn’s shins. He falls to one knee and cries out, barely registering the crack of another loaded shell.

“I could do this all night.”

“Wouldn’t… want to waste your ammo on a thing like me.”

He’s breathing heavily now-- wheezing if he’s honest with himself-- and has to readjust his weight often to lessen the burn in his leg. It doesn’t respond when he tries to move it and walk.

“Stay there,” Prompto says and spins on his heels. He backtracks to the trailer and disappears inside the open door. He returns a moment later, folding chair in hand, and sets it in the grass, one leg propped on the other and gun slung across his lap.

“So,” he begins, sniffing once and looking away. “How long do you reckon it’ll take you to heal those?”

“A matter of hours,” Ardyn replies. His appendages are going numb. Prompto nods.

“Guess I’ll have to keep track, then. As soon as they heal, just keep ‘em coming.”

He imitates shooting a handgun at the fallen man, hands receding to the plastic armrests. Daemons have gathered around the perimeter of the trailer and are snapping their jaws, hungry for the blood of their leader. Prompto doesn’t acknowledge them.

“You’ll be food if you’re not careful,” Ardyn warns. Prompto shrugs, a hand scratching at his light goatee.

“Daemons can’t go wherever there’s light. They’ll burn. Guess you’re the exception, huh? Just a little toast on your hide?”

Prompto stretches out a foot and nudges the hole in Ardyn’s head, shaking off the goo that sticks to the leather. Ardyn’s clothing has become soaked and makes wet noises when he moves.

“How long before you bleed out?” Prompto asks, picking something from his teeth and flicking it away. He bounces his leg to a steady beat, throat humming something low. Ardyn attempts to stand so Prompto sighs, plucking the shotgun from his leg and standing. He whistles as he pops new shells into the chamber, pellets rattling against their plastic containers. He lifts the full gun to Ardyn’s neck and leaves it there, eyes trained on his past the eyesight.

“Got something you wanna say? Before I blow you to kingdom come?”

Slowly, shakily, Ardyn lifts one hand into the air, fingernails crusted over with brown blood. He levels it within reach of Prompto and materializes a pistol into his palm.

“For you,” he says, smile honest. Prompto looks at it, looks at him. He plucks the silver gun from Ardyn’s grasp and spins it around one finger like it’s the most natural thing. Shotgun in one hand, pistol in the other, he squeezes the trigger and watches as blood sprays the ground behind The Chancellor. His body collapses heavily into the grass, throat raw and open, thick chunks of matter falling out of and around him. Prompto turns and walks back to his trailer, kicking the generator once to ensure it stays on. The last thing Ardyn hears is the door slamming shut before it all goes to black, one final breath foaming up through his lungs. The moon overhead watches detachedly.

 

He’s back in Niflheim when he awakes. Touching a hand to his head, then to his throat, he feels bandages there, clean and crisp. He sits up sluggishly and finds a man sitting at a desk, back to him, pen running over the blanks of a type-written document. He groans once when his head throbs and the man stops writing, chair creaking when he stands and turns to face him.

“Welcome back,” a deep voice growls. Ardyn looks up, uncovered eye straining against the fluorescents, and smiles genuinely in what feels like forever.

“My friend,” he says, hand reaching upwards. Verstael takes his and lowers it down, own hands returning to straighten his tie. Ardyn looks at his shoes.

“You’ve been rather busy,” the scientist says, eyes cast down at him. Ardyn laughs ruefully.

“If one includes gaining more scars to their list of activities.”

Verstael touches his bandaged head, fingers deftly checking for leaks.

“You’ll be fine, don’t worry. That body of yours can withstand trauma leagues more severe than this.”

Ardyn nods, good eye swinging around the area.

“What do you think?” he asks. Verstael knows what he means.

“My little spitfire? An interesting sort. One must wonder if they all would’ve turned out like that, desensitized and hollow. Somehow, the human version is more harrowing than the daemonic ones.”

He sniffs and walks back to his desk, sitting in his chair and rolling it across the tile to where Ardyn is on the bed.

“Your vitals failed you but you’ll rebound in no time. Seeing as though anything which comes into contact with you dies a horrible death, you’ve no cause for concern from the daemons.”

“Daemons?” he asks. Verstael levels him with a gaze and he breathes inward.

“Ahh, yes. Daemons. Surely Prompto is smarter than to allow them access to my blood lest they gorge themselves and rot from the inside out.”

“He spent the rest of the night sleeping quite soundly, leaving the area within the morning. Not so much as a single glance levied toward you as he packed.”

Ardyn is silent and Verstael judges him.

“Why did you not daemonify him? You started the task so long ago; why not finish it? Surely your wounds warranted the undying power within to come to the surface.”

Ardyn again doesn’t answer. Verstael waits, sighs in annoyance, then stands from his chair, tinkering with something outside of his view. He returns and shines a light into Ardyn’s eye, holding his head still when he tries to pull away.

“Your dilations are fine but you may find trouble with long-distance objects,” he states, making a note on his clipboard. His blond hair swings and falls into his face when he looks down, flipping the page to a fresh sheet. Ardyn reaches out and cups the side of his face. Verstael looks up from his notes with a neutral expression. Ardyn smiles again.

“I couldn’t kill the boy, you see. He looked too much like you.”

Slowly, ready to pull away if warranted, Ardyn leans inwards and pulls Verstael to him. The scientist steadies his palms on his thighs and prepares himself, breathing going shallow. Ardyn presses their mouths together in what’s the softest kiss he can remember, lips pursed and gently prodding Verstael’s. When they separate, Ardyn laughs and pushes a lock of hair from in front of one blue eye.

“You always close your eyes when we do that.”

Verstael reaches forward and pats his face fondly, scooting out of sight a moment later.

“Do get some rest,” he advises from somewhere in the room. “That will speed your recovery and have you back on your feet in no time.”

Ardyn obeys and lies on his back, then shifts to his side. He knows that this isn’t real, that this cool room in the middle of the Niflheim mountains, here with the man he tells himself he never loved, no longer exists. That from the day they met to the day he saw him fall to a single gunshot was all the time they had together and nothing can change that. But he’s grateful it happened. When he awakens in the real world, outside of this limbo in-between reincarnations, he very well may have no memory of this place, or of the soft face that leans over him and drapes a blanket across his shoulders. His freckles fade into the rest of his complexion as Ardyn drifts off to sleep, face going lax and arms falling onto the mattress below him.


	15. This Too Shall Pass

In Year Five, Ignis learns to walk without the assistance of a cane. He was the last one who assented to going separate ways, the remaining three of them Prince-less, but finds his independence strengthened quicker than ever before. He helps Monica with cooking when he can and trains willing Kingsglaive in the ways of food preservation, reminding them that salt is the key but oxygen can be fatal. He makes it a priority to avoid travel, sticking mostly to Lestallum and the well-lit camps crawling with soldiers. Underestimation, it seems, is his greatest asset: many daemons and rogue MTs scouring the land attempt to pray on him, sensing perceived weakness, only to find themselves tactfully speared on the business end of a polearm. The Glaives he spars with also go easy on him-- for the first round, at least. He doesn’t blame them for not wanting to beat up a blind man. But when they fall hard on their backs, knuckles bruised and noses blackened by fire, they learn never again to feel sympathy for him and his situation. He notes the patterns in footsteps, catalogues what gear the various infantries wear by their texture and talk, and makes mental notes about the standard placement for provisional and emergency gear. He loses contact with Prompto first, the boy wandering the land and clocking daemons with a record number of bullets. When they meet again for the first time in years, he knows that the youthful innocence once painting his personality like a heavy spring rain now is dry and cracked, edges worn round and callouses running deeper than the skin. His bones pop when he walks and Ignis notes how he always sounds tired, hands pulling through his hair when they’re not dismantling and cleaning his guns. He wears two on his waist, along with one strapped to his upper thigh, a smaller one concealed in the sole of his boot, and a large automatic that stays secured in a leather holster across his chest. He’s grown heavy-handed and unflappable as most of the remaining soldiers have, skin desperately covered in web-like cracks from dehydration and lack of sunlight. On the third night of a two-week long escapade into the Leiden desert, Ignis surprises him with an orange. He hears the hesitation in his breath, tough hands scraping his own when he takes it and cups it gingerly in his palms.

“I’ve rigged up a sort of apparatus,” he explains, listening for signs. “Artificial light and natural loam from Ravatough. The soil there, though buried deep, is rich in nutrients and unpoisoned by miasma. The process takes quite a bit of time but I daresay the effort is well worth the resulting prize.”

He hears the leathery rip of rine from flesh and smiles when Prompto inhales, hands catching all the juices from the shiny citrus. He pops a slice into his mouth and sighs, fingers sticky.

“Oh man,” he says, fabric of his high collar shifting when he moves. “That’s the best thing I’ve had in years. Literal years.”

It’s the longest sentence he can remember the boy saying in a good while.

“Do be mindful of the seeds. Please save them so I might grow more in the future.”

Prompto starts and attempts to salvage the ones already in his mouth. Ignis brings a handkerchief out from his pocket and passes it his way, Prompto drying the precious bits carefully and sorting them into piles. He savors the tang of the fruit piece by piece, placing one into Ignis’ palm. He pops it into his mouth, tongue unused to the intensity of the taste. It’s a small piece of heaven he needs, quite desperately, to continue on in the wasteland of his former home country.

In Year Seven, Gladio gets severely injured. Back sliding down a rusted old tank left over from a war almost forty years gone, he lifts a hand from his gut to see it seeped in red. His fingers feel tacky and tingle unpleasantly. Around him he hears shouts and the ring of metal against talon and wings. The Glaives he’s running with have met their match with a pack of daemons in an ambush, the truck they’re supposed to be escorting sitting dark and idle. His abdomen feels heavy where a daemon’s claws tore through flesh and muscle. He reaches for his provisions pack, finds it missing, and leans back with a pained grunt, shoulders thumping the metal. The field of his vision clears out of conflict and he spies a lone house, decrepit and worn with age. His eyes follow a Glaive hoisted into the air by an aerial bogey, scream piercing the eternal night. He groans, pulls his blade from the Armiger, and struggles upwards, sharp sides of the greatsword digging into the ground. He has to all but drag the damn thing behind him to make any progress and by then the Glaive is hanging by the nape of his coat, limbs flailing to free himself from the talons of his enemy. He hears a shout nearby and someone rushes to his aid.

“I wondered where the hell you’d run off to!”

A Glaive just a few inches shorter than him throws his arm around her shoulders and hoists him upwards, the hot, pulsing pain in his gut exacerbated by the stretch. They hobble across the field together and their comrades take up their defense against vulturous daemons. They go wild from the cloying scent of blood, noses tracking Gladio like live missiles. The journey to the worn, time-burnt home passes in a slow wave of searing hotness, the air moving in waves as if they’re driving in the summer. She kicks open the door to the shack and tosses him onto a bale of hay. He curls in on himself and focuses on not throwing up everywhere.

“Stay here,” the Glaive instructs. “We’ll be back for you in no time.”

He’s not sure how long “no time” is. The minutes, hours, or days spend themselves gifting him with waves of nausea, throat burning with bile, eyes going dry from the house’s plentiful allergens. The hay he sits on is stinky with dust and sticks painfully into his body wherever it can reach. In between episodes of vertigo and palpable regret, he spies a glowing blue light at his feet. He kicks it upwards as far as he can and touches a single finger to it, hands blackened with grime and grease. It’s a potion.

He breaks it gratefully in his palm and tries not to cry when relief washes over him, gut wound sealing and finally no longer pulsing. Fatigue hits him like a train and he sinks into a deep sleep, eyes casting themselves upwards to the dark ceiling. He swears he hears Noctis calling him a name.

A distant beeping wakes him up. He jolts stiffly, ear itching against the dirty hay, and struggles to sit up. Every part of him is stiff and achy. He peels his hand away from his gut to see the wound completely closed, tacky blood sticking his fingers together. He searches his pockets until he digs out his cell phone. It reminds him to charge it soon, cracked screen spelling out meaningless messages to him. In big white numbers it tells him the date and time.

He slips it back into his pocket and stands with a series of grunts, hobbling to the shack door. He pushes it open to find it’s been barricaded by a chair and a few wooden stools. Beyond the porch lies a field of bodies, greasy and bloated, the smell of meat wafting through the air. He passes the Glaive who shuffled him to safety, face buried in the dirt, intact limbs yellowed and swollen. His entire party is dead. He can only hope they took an equal amount of daemon scum with them before biting it. Before leaving the scene, Gladio scrapes the numerous dogtags from their stiff wrists and shoves them in tangled bundles into his inner jacket pocket, leaving the ones tied to their necks be. They can consolidate the names and numbers with remains later.

The driver of the truck they were meant to escort is beside the road, black blood dried to the asphalt. The driver’s side door is open and swings in the wind on its squeaky hinges. He clambers inside the cabin and glances back at the cargo, meteor shards glowing with untapped power in their sturdy wooden boxes. These were due to Hammerhead three days ago.

He slams the door shut and fiddles with the keys hanging from the ignition, engine purring to life without resistance when he turns them. He loses the entirety of the drive to empty thoughts and regrets.

Year Ten is the worst for them all. In just a few short weeks, not only does Hammerhead have to shut off its power for two hours every day to conserve energy, leaving them exposed to daemon threat and scavenger raids, but Lestallum suffers an earthquake that leaves the residents devastated in its wake.

A Glaive leader named Libertus orders a search and rescue for survivors first and foremost. After navigating the fallen bricks and busted-out homes for several days himself, he advises and takes part in an excavation of the Leville to get a status check on the Old Kings they’ve been storing in the basement there. Four of them are cracked and two look irreparable but the rest survived the quake unharmed, weapons gleaming underneath the soot. The Glaives find themselves still able to call on the Armiger without restriction so manpower isn’t wasted clearing out any more of the basement than has already been done.

Ardyn doesn’t intervene. He watches from the sidelines, vision fuzzy when the figures move too far away. He feels magic spike and triangulates the source to Angelguard where the Glaives have mobilized and battle the myriad daemons and deities manifesting themselves on that hallowed ground. He simply can’t will himself to go back there. Traversing the angry ocean would be no issue for him, whether on boat or using the powers he’s perfected in his time alone within Insomnia, but something more than distance wards him off. The island sits out of reach for so many more reasons than he can count right now, and so does his reckoning. He can feel it.

Electric currents spring through the air. Wavering, red bolts of energy stretch and dance lazily in his peripheral, his skin bubbling with tar-like blackness. He retires back to his throne in Insomnia to await the return of Noctis and the delivering blow which will decide the ruler of Lucis. This battle between kings, both fallen so far yet still clinging to the edge, serpent-like, is a reckoning decided since time immemorial. Was Noctis always destined to be the Chosen King? Or were it not for his release from imprisonment by a keen agent of Niflheim, the next king in line not yet born before his deliverance, he would have ruled as any other king before him? Blissfully unaware of the travesties of sovereigns predating him and his father? Could this young man destroy a being such as himself, cursed to live soullessly on a plane meant for those subject to time? If one lived forever, surely they would exhaust the opportunities available to them. Perhaps the first beings were immortal, serpent-pleasers and barren-heel treaders alike, ‘til the crushing weight of the unending guided their hand to indulgence and destruction. The raw, consuming power of knowledge was not meant to exist for eons. Responsibility was not created to gift to the young, so tender and naïve in their faculty, to die under its weight.  And yet that’s how the wheel had proceeded to turn. It could’ve been any king, really. Any Lucis Caelum chosen by the Crystal and Ardyn would despite them to their core. It was the whole truth that he found himself wrestling with, heavily at first, then quickly placing it among things that no longer brought him surprise or shame. The boy looks so much like Somnus it makes him feel sick. His father, whatever his name was, bore less resemblance to his forefathers than the Chosen King did. This worked well enough. If Somnus continued to elude him then the avatar of his legacy would suffice just fine. He and his friends are in for a sure surprise once they enter the castle, anyways, and he just can’t wait to cut Noctis’ throat from ear to ear-- they used to perform this execution when a known thief was taken into custody and charged. That would work nicely.

The throne room is drafty. Always has been. Somehow, it smells different today. From above the usual odoriferous scorched wood, stagnant water, and molten metal he detects something light. Floral, even, like the tender flowers that grow beside lakes in the spring and summer. It’s a juxtaposition that aggravates him into wanting to find the source and snuff it out. He paces the flat marble around the ornately carved throne, shoes sliding over slick ash and dust, torn. No, he can’t leave. Noctis will be here any day, any moment to decide the fate of Lucis and the world. He wishes he was exaggerating. The whole world is a lot to worry about. Good thing it wasn’t his issue anymore. Long live the Chosen King!

He plops down onto the chair seated above the room and leans his head into his hand. It’s free of soot and debris from the many times he’s napped in it, waiting. Always waiting. It’s the one thing in the castle he’s so much as touched and not to destroy. Various statues caught his attention and subsequent wrath whilst he meandered down the halls, splintering shards breaking the walls when his sword connected with it. The whole keep is quietly untouched by time, places of battles marked with sword’s cuts and skeletons, metal and human bone littering the floor in solidarity of the treaty. Some of the rooms look like their owners just stepped out for a bit to take out the trash or head to work, clothes folded neatly in wooden drawers, toiletries set out for the next day’s use. It’s uncanny, and uninteresting. Too many shadows too dark for anything to be casting them loom in the hallways. The throne room is the only place he feels safe at. Nothing comes in here that has no business with Adagium or the Chosen King.

The large, rusted doors to the throne room creak open. Slowly, almost hesitant at first. Then they swing open with a decrepitness he expects from the neglect of their golden hinges. He sits up, having fallen asleep without realizing it, and smiles at the figure cloaked in black in the doorway. He makes to stand and greet his king but pauses, eyes skipping around the details of his jacket. It’s leather, cracked and worn at the elbows and shoulders. His shoes are long boots that secure just below his knees with several straps dotted with silver eyelets. His hair is pulled back into a messy bun at the base of his neck, face dusted with sticky ash, eyelids bruised brown and purple.

He can’t find the right words. The doors close behind who is very much not Noctis Lucis Caelum, clicking definitively back into place against one another. He descends the stairs to a midway point, brow furrowing and unfurrowing.

“Lunafreya, was it?” he asks, though he knows it’s her. She nods, pieces of her golden hair falling from the bun and dripping down her shoulders, strands sticking in clumps to her sweaty neck. The click of his boots on tile echo through the drafty room. She doesn’t speak so he stops where he stands and watches the dirty clouds pass by through the hole in the wall.

“The gods needn’t have sent you, child. The only one capable of ending the torment of mankind has a face and a fate quite unlike yours and mine. They torture their messenger as much as they claim to adore her.”

He swings and faces her. Her expression is stoic, unreadable. She stands with a purpose below, feet planted apart, fists by her side. He’s let the smile drop from his face, unwilling to waste the energy for it on not-Noctis. He inclines his head, inspecting her from head to toe.

“Life untethered must be tough. I would not have marked you for a woman to take to the road. Your air is one of hardness and your skin, so sallow! Motor grease is not a flattering perfume, I’m afraid.”

He meets her eyes, bright blue against the darkness of her clothes, of her expression. Where there should be a shadow behind her from the moon’s timid light there is none. He continues.

“And yet, I was certain I smelled the intransigence of sylleblossoms haunting the wind today. Their scent is subtle yet lingering. To take the decorated fields of Tenebrae from you would be to remove the veins from ‘neath your flesh. To strip this mortal apartment from bone and reveal that there is nothing below. Nothing but the hollow shell of what once was the Oracle.”

“I did not come here to talk of times past,” Lunafreya answers. Her voice is as resolute as her stance. “But to discuss our future.”

He nods in understanding.

“Aboveboard, I see. You will find yourself disappointed, Princess. I await Noctis here, and want to hurt you any more than I wish to impale myself on yonder spire,” he responds, pointing to a broken pole jutting from the ground. “Assist your king by staying clear of the rubble, and me by ceasing to bore me with meaningless altercation.”

“What I have to say is of great import,” she says. “I implore you lend me your ear.”

“It bends for no man nor woman, yea though you might ask. I find I have no patience for this sort of thing.”

“It concerns the gods.”

“What doesn’t?”

He kicks a pebble and it skitters across the floor, clacking against the grout. She watches, nonplussed.

“They expect worship and yet solicit no favors toward their faithful, bar the nobility and their martyrs. And even then it is only toward their advantage.”

“It is by their will I am here today, and why I stand before you, ambitions bared.”

“Am I to trust these ambitions include killing me?”

She shakes her head back and forth.

“No, that is not why I am here.”

“I don’t believe you really are. The Oracle are blessed, yes, but to cheat death simply because the gods will it so? That is beyond their scope of sight. I am used to shades such as yourself wandering the corridors at any time of day or night. This black sky,” he gestures, hands chaffed and cracking. “Allows for many marvels to roam the earth. Your visage haunts me no more than does the discarded clothing of my youth.”

“Then allow me to give you this.”

She reaches into one of her pockets and Ardyn tenses. She holds out a small leather bundle, bound in string. He watches her suspiciously from atop the stairs.

“You think me naïve enough to accept this gift?”

“Call it what you like. I prefer to think of it as tithe.”

“Tithe,” he repeats, small smile cracking the lines of his face. “As if I am your landowner or resident bridge troll.”

She beckons him to take it and he slowly approaches, eyes on hers the whole time. He finally reaches the bottom step and hesitates, hearing the wheezing of her lungs.

“You’re worse for wear,” he comments plainly. She ignores him and sets the bundle on the floor, gently scooting it to his feet. He leans over and plucks it up, fingers brushing the soft material. He unwinds the twine from its secure bow and lets it fall to either side of his hand. Behind the leather, which is fragrant like the deep woods and tanned animal hides, and oily in a way he hasn’t felt in years, red material pokes out. He slowly opens the pouch further and winds the fabric around his fingers, pads familiarizing the touch.

It’s a scarf, he realizes. Clean, but worn lovingly. The ends are frayed to a lighter color and the stripes within are barely visible, but it’s nostalgic. He lifts it to his nose as if on instinct and his eyes drift shut, taking in the scents. It smells like lab coats and brushed nickel. Like days spent pouring over digital maps of Eos under unflattering fluorescent light bulbs. Of astringent, and blood, and scissors, and clothes closets. Of handcuffs and oversized comforters.

He lowers it and thumbs a bleached patch on the corner of the article, eyes dancing upwards. Lunafreya is still, hands drawn together in front of her. It seems like her guard is down.

“It was entrusted to me,” she explains, fingers twiddling slightly. “By someone I’d never made the acquaintance of. He’d not had it in his possession long before entreating me to return it to you next we met. Had he knowledge of our last encounter, I believe he would have entrusted it to another.”

“How did you get this?”

She pushes her lips together, pink flesh turning white with pressure.

“I did not steal it if that is what you ask.”

“I don’t remember parting ways with it,” he wonders aloud, thumb and forefinger rubbing the fabric. If he looks closely he can spy a patch which is redder than the rest. It makes his jaw ache just looking at it.

“I am simply the messenger. In exchange for a moment of his time, I promised to deliver the parcel to you.”

He looks up, angry.

“You pass on to the next life and the first thing you do is make promises to return to the former?”

“I made no promises,” she says with a defiant shake of her head. “Only the insistence that all sides of a story must be considered before acting.”

He grimaces, but the expression fades like the cloth of the scarf before him. He tucks the leather pouch and string into one pocket and the article of clothing into another. His chest feels slightly tighter than before.

“Speak, and I will hear you. But if I am to act on what you say is a matter of my future self. Inestimable belief in the gods’ benevolence has only turned the most faithful of us into atheists.”

It’s Lunafreya’s time to smile and she does so with the fervor of someone who is saturated in regret.

“I act as an agent of my own will. You see, though I was brought back to this goodly earth to once again serve the will of Bahamut, I seek now to rectify His wrongs. He wishes death upon all of Eos, mankind wilting as autumn flowers do in the winter below snow and sleet. I do not wish to defy the divine protectors of our world but it has come to my attention that Bahamut is no protector. Of the Hexatheon five defied His will, so much so that He caused a war among them that cost thousands of mortal lives and sent them into their long slumbers.”

“The Astral War?” Ardyn asks aloud. She assents.

“The conflict was not born of the Infernian’s wish to destroy humanity but rather of the Draconian’s desire to see it done. Now that four rest with Noctis the world remains under no stewardship until the day he emerges, his father’s ring and sword in-hand. I fear that the hour grows closer and we are as of yet unprepared to meet the wrath of His many blades.”

He blows air from his nose and slowly paces the bottom step of the grand stairwell.

“You claim to act as a free agent. The supreme god I know of wouldn’t hesitate to take away his gift of rebirth as quickly as he gave it to you the second,” he snaps for effect. “You stray too far from your leash. Have you ruminated on the Draconian’s intentions? Enough to glean that they are perhaps more sinister than as presented?”

She considers a section of cracked wall.

“I have.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He says this with a grand flourish of his arms, letting them return to his side a moment later. He cocks his head.

“What exactly are your intentions?”

“I wish to stop this,” she replies. “Noctis, too, knows he cannot allow Bahamut his victory. To follow the prophecy as it has been foretold would be to lay humanity on their knees-- not in genuflection but in subjugation. It is by his cruelty I stand here now to entreat your help.”

He pauses, blinking at the air.

“This is of his doing? Or your own?”

“I act for myself and the future of the kingdom. So long as breath draws into my body I seek to save our star. That is the purpose of the Oracle: not to blindly follow the wills of the gods but to protect her people, be it from themselves, a sickness born of the cosmos, or the divine. But I cannot do it alone.”

He turns slowly to face her, the dawning of realization hitting him. She continues.

“My journey has taken much from me. As is transmuting life into miasma your great, new power, mine too has morphed into something more advanced. I am able to draw the scourge from mortal bodies still, yet the darkness remains inside, unhindered by blessed forces. I now also contain the power to return the recently-possessed to their mortal states, pulling the infection out before it takes root. It took much trial-and-error to ascertain the nature of them, and more than once had I become lost from my path.”

She takes a moment to breathe, chest whirring.

“But I am here. My destiny is Lucis’ destiny. If I fall, so does the kingdom, and so does the world. I beseech you to join me in foiling Bahamut’s disastrous plans. Please.”

The last word is added in with a waver to her voice. He contemplates her words-- so steady, so practiced-- and yet they flow from her as naturally as anyone speaking their mind. Her studies her gestures, the way she shifts her weight from one foot to another when she stands still for too long. The way her neck, unbowed, keeps her head held high, and how her lips purse when she thinks. And yet she is changed. Dark veins creep up from under her jacket, spidery along her neck. There’s something desperate in her voice he’s not sure she knows is there, like the echo of a piano key falling out of tune. Like the darkening green of grass when autumn comes in, all cool breath and killing shade. He meets her blue eyes and an unspoken understanding passes between them, something stolid and bracing said in a language that’s never had a voice. She’s dying.

His eyelids flutter and he glances away, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know of me, and yet you ask these things…?”

“I would never claim to know you.”

His eyes are drawn to hers again and she’s smiling weakly, one gloved hand squirming against her side.

“But I know who you were, and know that the goodness has never truly left.”

He swings his arm outwards and the room becomes heated, air moving with fiery conduction waves. He feels the flames lick into his sclera and maintains her eyes when she unbraces from the hot wind radiating from him, blonde brows drawn together in confusion.

“You know nothing! Your arrogance is the same as all mortals! You meddle in affairs not concerning you and plant yourself in the midst of them, content to try and solve them. Hear me now when I say this is a fate you cannot change, Lunafreya. You will die here today and I shall string your corpse atop my ceiling to let your blood adorn my throneroom. Tell me, do you bleed in rubies or in onyx?”

She pulls her arms from her face completely and stands her ground, Trident of the Oracle filling her palms in a flash of blue light. Its whetted prongs reflect the burning pyre of the stairwell as Ardyn lifts one hand into the air and bids Ifrit come to him, white teeth glinting in the abyss of his mouth as he smiles down at her.

“We will see now who the gods have betrayed, and who they have built stronger from the bones of their world.”


	16. Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience! I tend not to pace my writing so after a few months of it I'll get hopelessly burnt out. I went to Hub City Comic Con over the weekend and regained some of my stamina so here's chapter 16, written in-between the lulls of merch selling and conversation with the other vendors. I'm honestly dying for the translation of Dawn of the Future so let's collect our spirit power and summon one up for us mere English-speakers to indulge in.  
> and as a side note, don't keep bugging Square about the cancelled DLCs. I see comments like that on every Insta/Twitter/FB post of theirs and I can't help but roll my eyes. they gave us a wonderful game and it's not the fault of the writers that those episodes weren't made playable. unfortunately, no amount of petitions and bitter social media rants will make them a reality. I'm very appreciative for what we've been given and am happy to build onto the story myself with fics like this.

When Verstael wakes up, it’s an ungodly time of morning. The sun rises far earlier in Gralea than the mountains and burns hotter, unobstructed by the high clouds brushing the jagged, stone peaks, and free-spirited wind keeping them moving. He’s yet to hang curtains in his room and the deep purple and burgeoning orange of sunrise bleeds through the frosted glass, too warm and too annoying. His alarm isn’t due for another thirty minutes, the digital clock blinking lazily on the bedside table. But he’s already awake.

Someone isn’t, though. And that someone needs to vacate his bed before he gets kicked out of it.

“You,” he says aloud and pokes Ardyn’s side. The man twitches and stretches, glancing sleepily over his shoulder at Verstael.

“Oh, good morning,” Ardyn replies and rubs his eyes.

“How did you get in here?”

He yawns and settles back into his pillow, hair spilling over the sides into a pool of jasper.

“Now what kind of person gives away all of their trade secrets?”

Verstael glances to the door, then to Ardyn, then to the window.

“The sun has no mercy for this place, does it?”

Ardyn grunts in affirmation.

“Unfortunate for the likes of me.”

Verstael pulls the cover from his legs and steps to the floor, arms above his head. Ardyn remains where he is beneath the warm comforter.

“Next time you change the permissions on your keycard,” he begins, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I shall have it revoked entirely.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before padding to the restroom and beginning his morning routine, massaging soap into his aching shoulders in the shower. He lets out an innumerable sigh, based more in a lack of proper breathing than fatigue or annoyance. He finds himself breathing shallowly against all council and sundry and inhales deeply into his lungs, steam flowing through his nostrils a comfortable wake-up.

He hears the alarm sound from the bedroom as he taps his razor against the sink, gliding it up his throat smoothly. Ardyn makes a deep noise of discomfort and fumbles loudly for the off switch, hitting it after several attempts land on the wooden table below. The bed creaks and it’s silent again for a few moments before the door opens and the tall man leans against the entry, eyes bleary. He begins to speak.

“I couldn’t catch a moment of your time long enough yesterday to greet you and offer news, so I had my card given access to the one place no one would dare to traverse to. Your hours have changed, however, so when I found you asleep I prepared myself to wait out the night.”

Verstael keeps the smile he wants to give at bay as he rinses the razor and goes in for another stripe.

“Your best laid plan did not work, did it?”

“They hardly do when a warm bed stands in the way.”

He casts a glance at Ardyn in the mirror. He’s got his eyes closed and is slouching, dark undershirt rumpled from sleep. His hair is mussed about and when he cracks his eyelids the amber color of his irises tells Verstael he’s himself.

“Tired?” he asks. Ardyn nods in agreement.

“It’s not like you to face fatigue.”

He runs a hand across his face and feels his dark, prickly beard encroaching onto his cheeks and neck.

“It must have to do with the change of altitude. I feel wearier this close to the ground.”

Verstael splashes his face with water and pats it dry, towel clean and odorless. He rubs a thick lotion onto his freshly-shaven skin, watching as the irritated patches sink back and lose their red tint.

“Being so close to society must be an exhausting feat all on its own. Nay, though I’ve tried, I could not hope to acclimatize you to the technological world in its entirety. This is something you must see for yourself.”

“Might I assume you have an excursion planned for today?”

“You would be correct.”

He turns from the mirror and leans his weight against the sink.

“We’re to meet with Ulldor and the Emperor in person. They expect a full briefing as to our plans for the end of the Glacian.”

Ardyn considers him, more so the man from Angelguard than the knife-wielding Adagium of the past year, and sighs gently. This “version” of him, so it is, is softer than any other. This one distrusts the bureaucracy and turns his head at violence, seeking only amiable solutions to persistent problems. It doesn’t surface often, but when it does it makes him feel something akin to regret— a bitterness he has to swallow like bile lest his personal feelings dethrone his logical mind as his governing force. The Empire is no place for an emotional being.

Verstael pushes himself from the sink and reaches up to pat Ardyn’s cheek in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“Get undressed and bathe. I’ll even wash your hair for you.”

It’s worth it to see the thankful blink of his eyes and easing of the lines caressing his face. Verstael watches the sleep drain from his body like so much water, soap pushing it down his contours and into the tub, dying it milky green. The bathroom has a different layout than any of the facilities in his lab hundreds of miles away so he sits on the edge of the tub as opposed to behind it, upper body twisted to face Ardyn, feet planted on the light tile floor. He works a minty shampoo through Ardyn’s hair at a leisurely pace, fingers swirling the bubbly strands in circles atop his scalp. He’s gained more weight since he began eating again, body burning calories at pace extreme enough to sustain his herculean energy. He’s a big man by nature, Verstael knows, and appreciates the new physique to match his genetic makeup. The thick, roping scars on his wrists don’t react to the warm water spilling over them, their pink, damaged tissue eternally protruding above the planes of the rest of his skin. The white mark on his neck, stretching lopsidedly from one jugular vein to the other, could easily be mistaken for an age line based on how little resemblance it now bears to the original wound. In contrast, he peeks the circular marks poking from his ribs where the point of a hook had entered and exited his flesh, rusted and filled with the island bacteria of two millennia. Lost in thought, eyes staring at Ardyn’s hair but simultaneously not observing it, he jumps when a wet finger touches his wrist and glides up his forearm, blunt nail tracing the blue veins beneath his skin to his elbow. He realizes he’d been taken by surprise and resumes his task.

“Do you ever think back on it?” Ardyn asks, voice genuine. He finds Verstael’s eyes but Verstael doesn’t look back. Not yet.

“On us?” he finishes.

“...On occasion,” Verstael answers truthfully. He lifts a small clear cup from the inside ledge and dips it into the water, pouring it out evenly across the lathered red-violet hair below his hands. Steam rises from the disturbed liquid and Ardyn shakes his head, hands lifting up and pushing the sopping locks from in front of his eyes, lips blowing water from between them. Verstael’s arm feels cool where the trail of water dries in the air.

“What are your thoughts when you do?”

“I think on them fondly. I have grown much since then, and data supports that you have as well. Conscious beings are never in a state of permanence.”

“There’s no need to be defensive.”

He prepares a retort then realizes, with a fleeting hint of shame, that he was being defensive. He takes a few moments to collect his thoughts.

“I fear I have let my heart make more decisions than my brain. You can imagine the brand of strain that places me under.”

“I need not imagine.”

His knees are bent up to make room for the whole of him and Verstael uses one as a handhold when reaching across the tub. He settles back down and finds Ardyn staring at him. He dances between his eyes, a nonverbal conversation trying to take place.

“What?” he asks. Ardyn inclines his head. He lifts his hand from the water and goes to touch three fingers to Verstael’s cheek but hovers before it unsurely, water droplets falling past the dusting of hair on his arm and back into the pool below.

“You’ve changed,” he says softly. He clarifies, eyebrows drawing inward to fill the familiar lines of his face. “There’s something about you I can no longer place.”

“What was I before?”

His pulse is jumping in his neck and along his arms. Ardyn’s gaze skips around his face and upper body, discerning. He meets back with his eyes and lets his fingers finally press forward and gently rest on him. Verstael swallows against the feeling of pain in his stomach. It’s not nerves. It punches his lungs then settles in his chest where it pulses dully, his left arm tingling. He stands and Ardyn doesn’t protest, just watches him as he excuses himself and leaves.

 

“Colonel Ulldor.”

“Chief Besithia.”

The two exchange handshakes. The Colonel’s hands are remarkably warmer than Verstael’s and his face screws up at the contact. When they part, Verstael replaces his glove neutrally. Neither men have offered a smile or more courteous exchanges.

“And you are…?”

“Ardyn Izunia.”

He says this with a small bow. Despite the warm weather he’s wearing several layers of clothing, including his overcoat and red scarf. Ulldor looks him up and down.   
“Would I ask for your name and not rank, man?”

“Apologies. Call me one of the Chief’s assistants. I will merely be observing his and your daring escapades at this facility.”

The Colonel sneers and looks away, hawkish nose prominent from his profile view. His brown hair is tied into a loose ponytail and slung across one shoulder, slipping around along the metal of his armor chestplate. He has boyish facial hair sprouting from his chin and upper lip. Verstael barely restrains asking for his ID before they make their way through the halls to a large meeting room, the Emperor arriving shortly after in a convoy of helmeted soldiers. Verstael and Ulldor bow in an aching tandem and Ardyn follows, the man nodding in response.

“It is very generous of you to offer your time, gentlemen,” he greets. He slides into the seat situated at the head of the table and the other three follow suit, claiming chairs of their own. Ardyn slips one leg over the other and settles in. His eyes find the guards quietly leaving the room, two stationing themselves beside the door inside, the rest presumably taking position around the door and hallway outside. The Emperor is but a few years older than Verstael himself. Still, he’s composed in a manner befitting the sovereign leader of a military nation. He wears all white robes with rich decorations in the form of a bolero framing his shoulders and an intricate necklace dripping from his neck down his chest, molten gold dancing in the reflection of the polished brown table.

“This is a new era for us,” he begins again, smoothing down his robes. “The creed of the gods that man must stand on a pedestal below them is quickly becoming of the past. I await with anticipation your proposal, Besithia. Let us hope it befits our grand vision and grander ambitions, yet.”

“With respect, my Emperor,” Verstael responds. He keeps his eyes on the sovereign but sees his digression make Ulldor uncomfortable already. He really isn’t fit for military service. Verstael stands and takes a thick folder with him, placing it gingerly before Emperor Aldercapt. He then takes a small remote from the wall, dimming the lights and turning on a projector. Their attention turns to the far wall where a slideshow begins to match what Verstael speaks aloud. Ardyn watches attentively, listening to the Chief speak and the reactions of the other two men.

“I call it Project Deathless,” Verstael says, a wide grin spreading across his face. The whites and greys of the projector paint his face in noir city shadows, dimmed lights running through his golden lashes from above. “And it is far beyond the expectations of any person or nation of this day.”

Ardyn feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to Ulldor.

“Do you have another copy of that folder?” he asks. The Emperor follows along with various spreadsheets, graphs, and written paragraphs detailing the medical procedures of he and Ardyn’s plan. Verstael has a sequential guideline attached to his clipboard which he uses more to gesture with than to read. They do in fact have several copies sequestered with them, one folded neatly and placed into Ardyn’s inner coat pocket.

“I’m afraid not,” he smiles. Ulldor settles back into his chair.

They continue with the presentation, the Emperor engrossed in the proceeding events. His face is remarkably smooth and clear of blemishes or wrinkles. Such is the privilege of sheltered royalty, Ardyn thinks with a hint of bitterness, reminded of his own brother. He half expects the young man’s dirty blond hair to bleed from the roots and turn blue, eyes morphing into a dark indigo. His expression lacks all of the necessary smugness of Somnus and instead shines with a well-learned concentration, probably beaten into him by years of tutors and trainers. He sees the potential for darkness within him and has to remember to keep his eyes on or near the presentation to avoid the suspicion of the armed troopers beside the door. His arms itch and he resists the urge to touch his face, all too aware of the black tears wanting to spill from the corners of his eyeballs. He blinks them away with purposeful gestures, rolling his eyes below his eyelids to smear the dark liquid and hopefully dilute it before Ulldor notices. He seems incapable of keeping quiet or still, flitting between trying to watch Verstael for some hope of understanding what he’s saying and wanting to ask someone for their papers. He makes comments to Ardyn and he wonders if the man evens cares that he doesn’t care for what he has to say. He knows Verstael hears him by the way he works his jaw back and forth in between words and finally decides to address the flow of one-sided conversation.

“Have you any comments on the procedures so far, Colonel?”

The young man hesitates, looking to Ardyn then back to the Chief. Verstael elaborates in that manner where he knows the other person has no clue what he’s been talking about for the past hour but hides it behind professor-level quizzing. It’s a tactic Ardyn knows well and one that Verstael pulls off the best when he’s hoping to shame someone. Ulldor opens his mouth several times to speak but nothing comes out. The Emperor, critical of his hesitation, turns his eyes on him as well.

“You’re…” Ulldor starts. “Hoping to turn humans into daemons?”

Verstael snorts lightly and begins pacing.

“That is the quintessence of the project, yes. Shall I break the process down once more?”

Ulldor nods. It seems everyone except him is in on the joke that he’s already explained it two separate times, both from a scientific standpoint and the scrupulous medical perspective.

“Instead of using the miasma harvested from captured and subjugated feral daemons, we inject the Scourge directly into living hosts, using their bodies as incubators for the miasmic power. Once the body degrades, we sublimate the resulting biological essence into magitek cores where they are placed into automated soldiers, encased in lightproof armor. Though as complicated, and costly, as the process is projected to be, I am confident from initial tests that this method will prove far superior to the current operations as they stand.”

The Emperor looks up from his readings, one hand to his chin.

“In this clause, your process for obtaining human hosts appears quite vague. I am lead to believe this is on purpose.”

“Indubitably, the acquisition of human hosts will be cause for concern from the general populous. Of course, the information divulged in this room is to remain among the participants here, all documents secured or otherwise extirpated after use, but as far the campaign of recruitment is concerned I require Your Excellency’s consent before the finalization of enlistment processes.”

He turns from the presentation, clicker in-hand, and lays his palms against the table.   
“If I may be so bold, I would implore for Your Majesty’s’ ideations concerning the subject.”

Emperor Aldercapt leans backwards, pensive. He turns to the Colonel.

“How goes, pray tell, the enlistment for your commanding brigade?”

“The numbers are… dwindling. However! I have been working tirelessly to swell those numbers, promising the pensions and living rewards so generously given by my Emperor,” he replies obsequiously. Aldercapt turns back to Verstael.

“The nation’s prisons shall be yours, namely for those unfortunate sentenced to meet with their demise for crimes unmentionable. They may be made of value to society once more, serving a glorious purpose in your lab.”

“Wait,” Ulldor interjects. He appears to shrink into his armor.

“We’re going to use death row inmates?”

“Whyever not?” Ardyn asks him sincerely, shrewd smile on his face. The Colonel looks taken aback. He starts to speak but Ardyn begins before he can.

“Their lives were forfeit the moment they went against your nation’s laws and their enforcers. Would they better serve to be chemical-drenched compost for the gardens or as vessels for His Excellency’s vision of an Eos unified under one flag?”

“‘Our’ nation?” Ulldor replies. Ardyn’s smile widens just slightly.

“Yes, our nation. Did I misspeak?”

“We’ve no time for particulars,” Verstael reminds them. The Emperor appears to agree.

“Yes,” he accedes, eyes perusing the table before him. “In compromise with Colonel Ulldor, and in the interest of the dissenting public, you may direct an agent to supervise a recruitment program, incentives monetary and political. I shall have the council enlist the assistance of the municipal governing bodies in distributing publicizing materials. We will require a complete list of screening procedures to secure the best-qualified candidates for daemonification, for any mere subject may not be suitable.”

“Though the specifications are paltry, Your Imperial Majesty’s cooperation is much appreciated.”

Verstael’s cape flourishes when he first bows, then sweeps himself back to the projected images. Ulldor raises his hand mid-way through an explanation of the sublimation process and Verstael double-takes with annoyance.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“How will this…”

He gestures with his hands in a spherical motion.

“These magitek exist with our… people? The humans who aren’t made of daemon particles?”

“I’m relieved that you’ve followed this closely,” Verstael patronizes. Ulldor’s eyes narrow in response. The Chief continues.

“A new training regime is currently underway to acclimatize the living with the enhanced. These are to be given to all commanding officers and enforced among troops.”

“Will these things--”

“I ask you refer to them not as ‘things,’ but rather as what they are, Colonel. Acclimatization is key, and as a leader you must set an example.”

“These  _ magitek _ , will they follow orders? Do they have some kind of transmitter that tells them who not to attack and who to listen to out on the field?”

“Of course,” Verstael replies ardently. Ardyn catches the hint of  _ What audacity! _ within his tone and smirks softly to himself. Time will tell whether his disdain for impertinent questions will grow to become more detectable or if age will soften his bedside manners to that of a friendly grandfather.

“I would not trust this work to your Generals and Lieutenants; their incompetence would do irreversible damage to my soldiers.”

Ulldor, finally tired of being admonished, plants both hands on the table and stands, back hunched.

“This is manic,” he states defiantly. “You’re a narcissist with grandeurs of delusion.”

Verstael raises his eyebrows and meets Ardyn’s eyes, which are already trained on the scientist. He sees genuine humor there. Ulldor continues.

“This can’t possibly be the future of the Empire! Automated, robot junk will never match the strength of the human soldier. People are far more respondent to command than any hunk of metal can dream to be. They can remember training but also act on changing circumstances. Can your things do that, Chief?”

Verstael leans in to his level, resting one hand atop the table in a mirror of the Colonel, fingers extended.

“Your most bold claim may be that you know more about anything than I.”

The Colonel scoffs angrily but Emperor Aldercapt raises a hand.

“Sit, Colonel. Chief Besithia and Chancellor Izunia are not your enemy. Do not antagonize the men carrying our nation’s hopes in their brains and hearts.”

Ulldor gapes at him.

“Chancellor?”

He fixes Ardyn in his sights.

“You said you were an assistant! Is this a test of some kind?”

The Emperor makes contact with Ardyn and offers him a knowing glance from down his nose.

“If he might impress upon us all his knowledge, we may have a proposition for Izunia yet.”

 

“No.”

“Please?”

“Pleading will get you nowhere with me. Of anyone, you should be the one to know this.”

Verstael has his arms crossed and is barring the way into his room. It’s nighttime in the Keep and he’s ready to retire to his desk and finish his briefings. His readers rest on the tip of his nose and he shoots poison daggers at Ardyn over their rims. The taller man is clutching a small pillow and brings it to his face, eyes exposed but mouth and nose covered by the soft fabric.

“Even for your Chancellor?”

Verstael sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Even if he were to promote you, it would be many years yet before you were prepared to take a place by his side. You’ve not gained complete control of your messes, for example.”

He purses his lips behind the pillow.

“I’ve not taken a single life since arriving here in Gralea.”

“Not those messes. Though I admire your restraint.”

Ardyn lets the pillow drop to his side.

“Might I at least supervise whilst you complete your paperwork?”

Verstael snorts derisively.

“Have I ever required supervision?”

Ardyn leans downwards and pushes his readers up to his eyes, smiling when the scientist draws his head back, unused to the sudden change in depth. In the confusion, he slips past him and settles onto his bed, arms enfolded around his pillow.

“I will only be here as long as the lights are on. After you retire, so shall I. To my own room.”

Verstael lets the door fall shut and plucks off his readers, letting them swing from his nose to his chest from the cord around his neck. He levels the manchild sitting cross-legged on his mattress, red-violet hair in a haystack atop his head, in his sights and sees him grin. Wordlessly, he sits at his desk and begins scrawling on the waiting documents.

He finishes five reports and thinks he gets to the sixth but discovers he was only dreaming about work. When he awakes his back aches knowingly from his terrible posture: slumped over the desk, drool dried to the placemat and sticking his face to it. Light bleeds in from the window, early and grey on the floor. He squints at the desk lamp burning a few inches away, then sleepily turns to the bed.

He’d half-expected Ardyn to not be there, actually following him for once and taking what he said literally. But he’s laying on his pillow, one arm tucked under it, shirt folded neatly and placed on the nightstand. Verstael swallows dryly and turns the lamp off, schloffing toward his usual side of his bed. It’s a full size mattress but he favors one side, alarm set to ring right beside him every morning. Though he often finds himself flung across all corners of the plump surface, it’s a ritual of sorts to fall asleep in the same spot.

Ardyn is covered in a thin sheet, chest rising and falling steadily. Verstael slips beneath the comforter and feels his eyes drop shut immediately despite himself.

The alarm wakes Ardyn but not Verstael. How he knows is that he’s clung to him, limbs like a monkey’s, intertwined with his at every junction. Ardyn can only locate which way he’s facing because of the wet breath on his bare chest.

He pulls his arm free with much difficulty, pushing his own hair from his mouth and tapping the snooze button. Verstael’s stuck to him by a sheen of sweat, saliva, and spindly extremities wrapped around his own. If it weren’t so unexpected it would be nice.

The room is warm except for the Chief’s feet. He draws them up in his slumber and into the covers, chills coursing across their sleep-warmed skin. Ardyn squirms, then stops cold. Spidery grey veins pulse beneath the flesh of Verstael’s exposed neck, skin as white as the paper of the typewriter. Curious, he presses two fingers to a small river of black. The corruption finds its way to him, pooling in a bruise-like fashion around his touch and undulating like waves. His ears begin to ring and draws back in abject horror, the man in question pushing his head further to his chest. A moment later, he rouses, short hair in every direction but where it should be. His eyes are dark and stained red, fine lines less fine under the weight of fatigue. He looks confused.

“Why are you here?”

Ardyn smiles at him and swipes dried spit from the corner of his mouth.

“To be a pillow, it seems.”

Verstael leans into his hand, brows creased as if in thought. Ardyn rubs at the wrinkle between them as if wielding an eraser.

“You need more sleep,” he declares softly. Verstael peels his eyes open, blinking heavily.

“If there were ever a time for that, it was before being relocated here.”

“I couldn’t convince you then, for it was too late. How long before your own body degrades under the pressure? Ten years? Two?”

“It is too early for hypotheticals.”

“You’ll remember this when the hypothetical becomes your reality.”

They’re silent in the warmth of the morning, Ardyn shifting his rubbing to Verstael’s neck. The man grunts in appreciation of his big hands, one of his own smoothing up and resting atop his knuckles. He leans inwards and inhales, lips mere inches from Ardyn’s. They both open their eyes and search for an answer, a question-- anything to continue the current atmosphere-- in one another’s half-moon pupils.

“I have a hypothesis.”

“Mm.”

Verstael plops his head back against Ardyn’s chest.

“Have at you, then.”

He assents, mind made up, and takes Verstael by the upper arm. He pushes him onto his back and climbs over him, hands planted on either side of his slim body. Verstael blinks slowly at him, eyes opening wide. The purple of his irises bleed over and consume the blue in the morning light, flecks of ocean breaking through the cosmos, the whites of his eyes tinted red still. He doesn’t try to push Ardyn off of him for once, arms remaining still at his sides, one wrist upwards to the sky. Compliantly, he sits up when Ardyn pulls the thin sleepshirt up over his head and discards it.

He leans in and presses a hand back to his neck, nails bumping over the ridges of teeth-like scars. The darkness he saw earlier has sunk back into the recesses of the scientist’s body, light grey lines along the cords of his neck the only reminder, but when he begins tracing downwards the sickness comes back to life, inky entity following his touch. It bumps along his jutting collarbone, across his sternum, and flows between each rib bone. It hits his sixth rack before he notices it, spine stiffening in response. He shoots up, belly folding as he twists himself to look at what’s there.

“What in…?”

Ardyn moves his hand and it almost recedes entirely back below the surface. Verstael watches, intrigued, and tries to call it back with his own touch. It doesn’t respond.

“Does it hurt you?” Ardyn asks. Verstael shakes his head, adamant.

“No, I have never felt anything like this before... How long have I been infected?”

He shakes his head again, gentler this time.

“There’s no use in pondering the unanswerable. This will not do. I have too much work to be doing, and far too many opportunities for this to--”

Ardyn silences him, taking both his arms and pulling him inward. Their foreheads connect gently and Verstael lets his lips hang slightly agape, breath hitching in his throat.

“I cannot die now. That is simply an impossibility,” he says, tone hushed. Ardyn nods in agreement, nose brushing Verstael’s.

“I understand. And I believe I can help.”

Verstael opens his eyes and peeks the pointed canines from within the row of pearly white teeth. Ardyn’s eyes, since the color of wild honey, turn slitted and play with shards of bright orange like solar flares breaching the surface of the nearest star. He swallows, near undetectably, and offers himself by quietly separating their limbs and leaning back on his arms, chest and ribs bared.

“Do what you must.”

Slowly, respectfully, Ardyn lowers himself with his arms and positions his mouth above a tender section of Verstael’s ribs. He nudges the spot where he called the infection with a finger and it responds, eager to meet its master. He curls his lips back over his teeth and bites down swiftly, breaking the skin in what he hopes is as painless a maneuver as possible. Verstael clenches his jaw and Ardyn can hear the glasslike scratch of molars gritting on each other.

He lets his tongue work the open wounds when biting doesn’t do the trick, warm, thick blood filling his nostrils and dripping down his throat. He tastes something bitter beyond the iron and forces himself to bite harder. Verstael winces and pulls in a hard, shuddering breath, one hand shooting to his mouth to stifle a pained noise. Wet tears prick the edges of his eyes.

He makes another noise of distress when Ardyn takes hold of something hard between his teeth and begins sucking out the infection in earnest, all forms of courtesy forgotten. His wound is bleeding freely now and is staining the sheets below them in a crimson mess, Ardyn’s chest decorated with rivers that drip lazily onto his pants. The infection seems drawn into his mouth, black clouds of miasma dissipating in the air when they touch burgeoning sunlight.

After several painful minutes of nursing the broken flesh, vestiges of dark infection fighting past the coagulating blood, Ardyn separates his mouth from Verstael’s ribs, jaw aching and tongue swollen. His mouth waters carnivorously and he swallows down the metallic aftertaste. Flashes of memories not his play behind his eyelids and he forces them open to stop the cinematic.

Verstael is in anguish. His hands shake when he goes for several tissues from the bedside box, wadding them into a small bundle and pressing it against his wound in a crude first-aid. He’s breathing from his mouth and suppressing his discomfort, little whines the only indication. He looks up at Ardyn, face pleading.

“How long until it returns?”

He blinks unsuredly, face tacky with drying blood.

“I’m not certain.”

He pushes the back of his hand across his chin and comes away with a peeling brown substance, sharp and acrid-smelling. His hand is to his mouth before he can stop it and only a moment later does he look up at Verstael, eyes wide at the sight. He unlatches teeth from flesh and presses their foreheads together again, breathing in the scent of his fear.

“Ardyn, I--”

He’s cut short when Ardyn attacks his mouth, hands splaying out and touching everywhere he can. Verstael tries to pull away to speak but Ardyn won’t let him: he kisses him breathless, saliva mixing with the salty taste of blood. His sweat is still beading when he finally lets go, pressing the flat of his tongue to Verstael’s neck and sucking harshly at the old scar there. Verstael pulls at his shoulders and scrabbles his feet against the mattress. He goes along with it, though, helping him pull the elastic from his hips and untie the string holding Ardyn’s own pants in place. Before he knows it he’s pinned beneath the taller man, fingers tangled in his hair and legs wrapped around his waist as Ardyn pounds mercilessly into him, wet lips drinking in his cries. The sheets below them are rousted from their neat corners, Verstael’s free fingers pulling at them in fisted bunches. The alarm can hardly contest with their combined moans, skin meeting skin in a harsh morning contest, Verstael rolled onto his stomach and taken from behind for his climax. Ardyn reaches to the nightstand and rips the plug from the wall, silencing the beeping machine for good, then collapses atop Verstael once more. He’s careful to not put all of his weight on the man for fear of tearing open his gash again, his elbows secured into the mattress to hold it away from pressure, but he presses open-mouth kisses to his shoulders and neck in worship of his body. Raised red patches where his beard scratched decorate Verstael’s skin amidst the freckles, epidermal wounds making neighbors of flawless flaws. Verstael regains his breath, turning his head to one shoulder and speaking.

“Never again,” he asserts, though the way his thighs quiver when Ardyn runs a rough hand over them paints a different picture. He kisses the nape of his neck in agreement, palm pushing up the small hairs there, listening to the drawing of his lungs like music. There has to be a more scientific way to prolong his life, Ardyn knows. They will just have to work even harder to find it.

“Ulldor represents a problem,” Verstael breathes. He shifts his legs to ask Ardyn to move so he does, rolling from atop him and flopping an arm over his eyes.

“You really wish to speak of him?”

Verstael limps to the bathroom, smacking the lightswitch with one hand while cradling his bite with the other. Ardyn hears him peel away the wet tissues and groan in displeasure. Water starts from the faucet.

“The Emperor places little faith within his words, and yet still enlists his service in the form of military command.”

There’s the clinking of metal on porcelain and a sharp grunt. Ardyn lifts his arm from his face and stands, curiosity aroused. He smells the distinct tinge of soap and iodine in the air when rounding the doorway to the restroom. Verstael is sitting on the toilet with a towel across his lap and rubber gloves snapped down to his wrists. He has a needle driver in one palm and a length of nylon suture in the other. A jar of NSAIDs sits on the edge of the sink.

“You’re shaking,” Ardyn notes aloud, watching as he swiftly injects something into the cleaned wound and replaces the syringe on a small metal tray. Verstael doesn’t acknowledge him there.

He leans over stiffly and begins stitching himself up, pinching the ends of the cuts together before inserting the small, curved needle through the tissue. The job is done in a matter of ten minutes, stained towels discarded into a pile for later. Ardyn had slipped his clothing back on and prepared to leave once he was sure Verstael had the situation under control, stripping the bed and placing the scientist’s discarded clothing into their own hampers, then calling on the cleaning crew to remove the mattress. No questions asked, no hesitation, just the cool professionalism of two strong workers hoisting the heavy padded thing up from the frame and out of sight down the hallway. The door had just clicked behind them when Verstael resurfaces from his task, face freshly washed and ribs bandaged cleanly. He’s wearing a pair of dark slacks and black socks but no shirt.

“I’ll be doing the removal of Scourge from now on,” he states plainly, demeanor returned to its coldness. He opens a far closet and plucks a starched white button-up from its hanger. He swings it slowly across the back of his shoulders and buttons it, cautious of his aching stitches, then tucks it into his pants.

“We’ll need to be in the main lab soon,” he adds, placidly looking around the room. The sun is marginally higher in the sky than it was when they awoke. Verstael eyes his soiled trousers.

“Those may be a biohazard.”

Ardyn nods, running a hand over his hair. It’s a reminder and a flippant dismissal all at once.

“Quite so. I shall meet you for work verily, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a break so I can recharge my creativity! I honestly love writing and can go overboard with how much I produce sometimes, so hiatuses are essential for me. I saw someone refer to their similar circumstances as "creative cooldown" and that's a perfect term for what I need right now. I appreciate all of the sweet comments and the inspiring ways readers have been reaching out and I hope to make the wait worthwhile. Maybe we'll even have an official, published translation of Dawn of the Future here soon to spark my wonder once more :3c


	17. Woman Clothed In the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience!

_ Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs. _

_ Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes _

_ Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. _

 

_ Richard II, Act III, Scene II _

 

When one idolizes death, the signs and symbols of it become more of a memory than a certain future. To some, this may be alarming. But in the culture of Tenebrae, and particularly the occupants of Fenestala Manor, it was commonplace to find surprise directed at them when the passage from this life to the next was discussed with ease. Lunafreya had always felt a certainty when in among the eternally resting, dust atop their marble sarcophagi soft like sylleblossom pollen floating in the spring air. Old pools of semi-soft wax lay melted in small alcoves, burnt wicks melded with fragrant herbs beside final scriptures recorded just before death.

If one was lucky, they passed on surrounded by those dearly beloved to them at their sides, hands and faces wrinkled by time. But the history of Oracles is a bloody one, saturated in fear and bravery, fealty and insurrection, sainthood and those of nonesuch description befitting, some lives cut short and others not short enough. Martyrdom was a sacred status in the Nox Fleuret mind, reserved for only the noblest of circumstances, when all other options have shown to have been lost to sea, swept by the merciless tide. Lunafreya had never thought herself a martyr nor held the expectation she would encounter the chance to become one. Her mother, rest her soul, hadn’t been martyred for her beliefs, and neither had her mothers before her. No, rather she had died by fire and sword: struck down for protecting her own children and the only child of a visiting royal. Her mother before her had perished in a similar fashion, albeit more gloriously, the stories told, with intermittent Oracles slain in battle dating back over 2,000 years.

It only befitted Lunafreya, then, the youngest of her blood to have assumed the role of Oracle, to have been not killed by friendly fire, nor fed to the flames of a hopeless war fought between factions of mankind, but purposefully and ungraciously slain at a city of water, left to be overtaken by ceaseless waves while breath still quietly and bloodily drew thereafter. Not so much martyred as made a fleeting example of; a pest, nothing more, that needed moving from the line of sight. Ignoble and forgettable, broken body unworthy of repair. Simply put, it had been murder.

She never blamed Noctis. The sweet boy had already been carrying weight more than was feasible for a soul his size. The Atlas stones strapped to each shoulder and shin were only outweighed, perhaps, by the golden crown falling from his head to cover his eyelids, and perhaps by the scepter in one hand and the orb in the other, doomed to encumber him for eternity. This is and has always been the curse of the Chosen King since time immemorial, taught to each and every monarch and sovereign. But no one ever expects to live the prophecy. Not really. The end of times is always foretold and debated, exaggerated until, one day, the person who is supposed to make it all happen appears, and suddenly the players are all critics, too. Too much, they say. Too little. One only wishes to lighten the load and make all the prophecy-fulfilling less stressful than it is.

Look what happens when one does, though.

And so Lunafreya met her end, lungs blooming deep sea flowers darker and thicker than any garden, throat tied shut by the cord of the cold. The poetry of the situation wasn’t lost on her after she lost sight and before she left consciousness, floating in that gentle limbo accompanying a violently quiet death. And neither was the unfairness, though that was soon dismissed. For all their idolization and sanctifying by the people they swore to protect, the Oracles are, and always have been, humans, subject to the doggedness of inherent flaws. With some entitlement she contemplated the miscarriage of compassion which led her to Altissia, to her status as bride to-be, back to the very day her mother passed and was not allowed a warrior’s burial at their family mausoleum. The greatest honor of her family was to join their mothers in eternal rest at the end of their life, be it as a young lady or elderly woman, the most fortunate lying in between. But even that grace was denied her. Punishment, then, for failing to provide an heir for the Oracle’s blood to continue on in. Divine retribution for not ensuring their Chosen King was living before drawing her last breath. Whatever the reason, be there any, she found herself embracing her death knowing she had left a trail, however brief, upon the good earth for Noctis to follow. If the kings of Lucis should end with this destitute monarch, so should the Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae with this ill-omened augur.

An echo of a sweet song fills the recesses of her mind. Before, it had played through and travelled across vast spaces, never reaching an end, time an illusion of a life past. But something changes, all too quickly and yet so long after she last saw the light of the sun.

It echoes back to her.

In a round of gentle lullabies overlapping, she sees the world come back from black. Had she been dead or merely asleep? The time has been too short to be of consequence. And yet, the mellow melody of a guardian had drifted for what seemed like so long between her ears, tickling the soft hairs above them and breezing behind her neck and shoulders.

There’s a bleeding of light into her irises-- first slight and inconsequential-- then bright and blurry all at once. It hurts like a new burn. Her guardian’s voice fades and she finds herself chasing the motherly comfort of it. Instead of reaching it, she reaches full consciousness and the song dissipates altogether. The arms that lulled her abandon their encirclement and recede back to their plane, leaving her cold and dirty in an unfamiliar place. It’s so much lighter than behind her eyelids but is remarkably dark. She must be inside. The cloying smell of old, damp loam touches her olfactory senses.

She sits up, stiff, and observes her surroundings sleepily. Old stone, the grout fitted with dried mold and animal bones. Semi-soft wax from candles past streams onto the walls, dusted with torch ash. Falling from her shoulders is a mess of blonde hair, dirty and matted with soil. The wavy remnants of her braids remain among the clumps, smelling of the ocean. Her dress is greyed and tattered up her legs, ankles and knees bruised purple and black. One entire side of it is frayed and falling apart at the stitching, craftsmanship immaculately evident still. Lunafreya unsteadily gets to her feet, bare and even colder than the stone floor, and almost falls over again. Her palms scratch against the rough wall when she steadies herself. Her thighs ache dully, and when she takes a step her knees are so rigid she falls onto her elbows, barely bracing her face against the hit. Almost an entire minute passes before she can stand again, shaking with exertion and exhaustion. Using what strength she has, she tears both sides of her dress further up her thighs to accommodate her gait, though she can barely manage a waddle to a steep staircase. At the top is the tell-tale light of the outside creeping through a translucent piece of fabric which sways with the wind. With no banister or railing to guide her up, she takes her time ascending, stopping to rest against the increasingly lukewarm rock. Her limbs don’t absorb any of the warmth and the blood from her wounded palms leaves dark brown trails along the wall. When she finally, blissfully reaches the top stair and pushes open the rotted curtain, she confirms she had just been inside of a grave. A crypt, more specifically, with the stone door broken from its hinges and scattered in pieces around the ground. Dead, crisp grass crunches under her toes and the smell of wet earth hits her nose again. It’s less old and more soiled by acidic rain. The myriad gravestones are tattooed with rivulets driven through their granite skin, some broken, some razed to the ground. Her abdomen stings like pinpricks and she retches, sour taste seeping between her teeth and out her dry lips. The wind is humid and sticky, drawing a sickly sweat to her brow. Following bile is another, more watery discharge, pushed up from her lungs and immediately soaked up by the thirsty ground.

She turns and sees a statue poking from the ground like old bones, human face placid in the night; her flowing gown and impressive weapon strike out against the grey darkness of early morning. She’s a tall, broad spectacle, and Luna recognizes her as an ancestor of her own. She’s in Niflheim, based on the language used in the statue’s engraving. She’s been here before on pilgrimage.

Something cuts through the night, sharp and hard. She turns toward the graveyard and sees a figure, slumped and slow, meandering toward her. Its eyes reflect iridescently, a terror settling into her marrow at the recognition of a daemon.

An old tree moves in the wind and she dashes for it, legs barely responding to command. At its base is a sharp, sturdy branch that she grabs for and hoists before her at the ready. The daemon has followed her with its eyes, joints creaking and limbs moving among the small monuments. It barely registers the gravestones, stepping and climbing over them on two, sometimes four feet. If she isn’t careful, she’d end up among them.

So for the first time in her life, she runs away.

The air is thick, breezing into her lungs like molasses. With every step it feels like she’s drowning all over again. Hard salt scraping her throat. Nose burning with algae. Skin being compressed to her muscles by pounds and pounds of underwater pressure. The feeling is so awful she tries to hold her breath to stop it, even for a second, but the force from her uneven steps forces air from and back into her chest. She chances a glance back and sees the creature has begun running faster, one stumped ankle leaving a stream of black ooze along the dead ground. She looks up to the sky and realizes that it’s not morning. It’s not even a time of day she recognizes. The sky is sprinkled with dirty clouds, brown and deep orange set in contrast to the unsettling black of the heavens proper. Miasma particles drown the fresh, outside air and stick to every surface. As far as anyone could know, it might be two in the afternoon. The sun might be burning behind the thick fog, unable to penetrate the sickness at its height.

The sun might have also burned out.

In the distance there’s a rumbling, deep and steady. She squints against the blurring of her vision and sees, parked at the edge of the graveyard, is a motorcycle. A person sits atop it, helmeted head turning toward her. She takes a chance and discards the sharp branch, turning and tossing it javelin-like at the pursuer. It moves away from the weapon, letting it lodge into its spindly upper arm, and growls at her, maw set deep into its face. She turns back to the motorcyclist who rapidly packs their toolbox and latches it onto the back of the vehicle.

“Please!” she calls out, voice hoarse. The cyclist again acknowledges her, vizor reflecting the white of her visage. They beckon her forward and she pushes onward, championing herself to make it there. The cyclist is looking back behind them to the road, warily scanning the horizon. Luna follows their line of sight and sees a small horde of daemons ambling toward them.

The cyclist yells something to get her attention, tosses a helmet her way, and starts the motorcycle with a loud rev. Luna catches it in both hands and straps it to her head. By the time she makes it to the sidecar and clambers in, the cyclist is already pulling away from the shoulder and taking to the pothole-riddled road at a dangerous speed.

The wind blocks out any other noise besides the engine, grunting along under their combined weight. Luna grasps the sides of the small compartment, pulling her legs to herself and tucking her feet under her thighs. The cyclist, whose wavy brown hair flies free from underneath her helmet, is swerving to avoid axel-killing holes but wastes no time in avoiding the smaller ones. It’s a good model for a while, but when a large bird-like daemon swoops in and nearly takes off her arm, she swerves in a circle, flinging Luna against her. The motorcycle grinds to a halt, burnt rubber wafting up from the pavement.

“Fuck me.”

Quickly, the cyclist rips off her helmet and dismounts, discarding the gear to the dusty ground and dipping into a side satchel. She slings a shotgun from around her shoulders into her hands and pumps several red shells into the chamber, one after another in quick succession. Luna also removes her helmet, setting it atop the motorcycle’s seat and stepping into the dirt, fighting back more bile.

Daemons are converging on them from behind and both sides, more drawn from the wilderness to the noise and the smell of human blood.

“Can you fight?” the cyclist asks.

“I am better with magic,” Luna answers in her head. She only nods at her once though and catches the long metal baton that’s thrown her way. It has rings on it, leading her to believe it’s collapsable, and she brandishes it with two hands as if it were a trident. The cyclist begins firing off shots behind her and Luna makes for the nearest daemon, striking it across the face with a backhanded movement. It reels in time for a dog-like mongrel to attached itself to her left calf and catch her off-guard. Its teeth are huge and yellowed, vicious-looking spit crawling down its jaw and mixing with her blood. She strikes it repeatedly before planting a palm against its forehead, pressing down to draw its eyes open and jabbing at them with the baton. One blow hits it and it winces, but when black miasma begins rising up from it it wails, eyes turning red, then black, then vanishing in its skull. The rest of the body follows suit and it flows into her skin, a purple light emanating from where it once stood, leg lazily drooling from vacated tooth-punctures. She observes her hand, feeling her vision blur around the edges again, and touches her tongue to her bottom lip.

This can’t be possible.

The cyclist’s shotgun brings her back to the situation at hand, firing several shots into the crowd of daemons. One leaps at her and she whacks it away with the barrel, proceeding to batter it into the ground without so much as a blink. She just snarls against the kickback and the spattering of matter onto her clothing and skin, white poncho stained with oil before and blood now. After making mincemeat of the assailant, she pumps her gun full of shells and takes on more and more daemons. Luna, feeling useless, keeps her eyes trained on the ones hanging near the back. She tries to blink away the haze and shake off the dizziness but it hangs on, clinging to her like a bad odor.

Reluctantly, she joins the cyclist in taking down several daemons, hitting them when she can with her hands and the baton but absorbing them into herself only when she’s sure her savior isn’t watching. It takes them upwards of twenty minutes to dispatch the assembled cast and another few to pack silently and rest for a moment. Luna takes to the ground, breath heavy and head swimming. She feels rejuvenated, loathe though she is to admit it, but the side effects of such a cursed ability are obvious from the start. There’s no way she can keep this up if she plans to discover why and how she’s here in Niflheim.

The cyclist stands from the bike and stretches, slipping the shotgun back around her shoulders and slinging one leg to straddle the machine. She looks to Luna, opens her mouth to say something, but stops short and makes a face of anger. The cyclist reaches for her gun again, but not before Luna dashes toward her, speed inhuman and body immaterial, and touches a hand to her forehead. With just a moment of contact, she falls forward and bangs her head against the handlebars, body slumping and going slack. Luna takes several steps back, cautiously observing her to ensure she’s actually out. When the cyclist doesn’t respond, she sighs in relief and lifts her body with a grunt, grabbing the rope securing the shotgun and pulling it from around her. She lets the unconscious body fall back to the bike as carefully as she can then backs away, uncertain how long it will take her to awaken again. Luckily, it’s less than a minute before she stirs, pained groans bubbling up from her throat. She lifts her head groggily, eyes struggling to focus before they find Lunafreya. Her eyebrows draw downwards when she spots the gun gripped in both hands, barrel aiming to the sky.

“Please listen,” she starts quietly. “I do not want to hurt you.”

“Like hell,” the cyclist growls. She straightens too quickly and Luna backs away a half step, fear shooting up her spine.

“I am the Oracle, Lunafreya,” she explains. “And I thank you for saving me.”

The cyclist lifts one side of her mouth in a sneer, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“I wasn’t born yesterday. Lady Luna died, like, ten years ago,” she replies, looking Luna up and down. “And you look like you’re alive enough. Pretty humanlike for daemon scum.”

“Daemon?” she asks, taken aback. The girl, who appears very young, gestures with her chin to the gun in Luna’s hand. Luna takes a chance and follows her gaze. She lets the gun clatter to the ground and can’t help the breath that escapes her. Her palms are leaking black fluid, rivers of miasma drying into snakelike fashion across her greyed skin. The wound from the daemon also has healed, shiny dark ooze pooling on the ground at her feet. She touches a clean finger to her face, looking on in tear-blurred awe at the sticky mess that comes away with it. She glances back up to the girl, who hasn’t moved from the bike.

“How can that be,” she begins slowly, afraid to touch anything. “That I am dead and yet I am here?”

“You’re nuts,” the girl answers loudly. “She wasn’t the only casualty in Altissia. The whole goddamn city got torn apart just like Gralea, ‘cept we didn’t have enough water to drown everyone in. Metal sinks, though, so it’s a stinkin’ good thing the MTs drowned like the rest of ‘em. Now that the facility’s shut down, no more can be made. The ones that didn’t get destroyed by Leviathan are the last.”

“Leviathan…” Luna says aloud, disregarding the potential threat before her. The cyclist moves and she starts, eyes wide with fear. The girl lifts her hands in the air in a sign of peace.

“I’m not gonna shoot yet,” she says, circling around the bike. Luna grips the baton without breaking eye contact. The girl doesn’t flinch.

“Prove to me you’re the Oracle and I’ll let you live.”

“How?”

“You tell me.”

She leans down slowly and plucks the gun from the ground, eyes serious.

“Or I kill you.”

Luna feels her lip quiver, eyes spilling over with tears. She instinctively wipes them away before remembering the liquid on her face and hands. When she pulls away this time, however, the tears are just that. She laughs bitterly to herself.

“I apologize,” she admits, pushing the salty things across her cheeks. “I am unsure how to prove my identity.”

The girl has the gun in her hands but isn’t aiming it anywhere. She looks Luna up and down again, gaze catching on the bite mark on her calf. She looks back up and narrows her eyes.

“Why are you barefoot?”

The question catches her unawares but she does her best to answer it, hands finding one another before her.

“I am not certain. I must have lost my shoes somewhere.”

“Why are you in the middle of nowhere?”

“I believe,”

She sniffles, looking away then remembering to keep contact.

“I believe it is the doing of Bahamut. He has taken me from Altissia and displaced me here so that I may complete my calling. And yet, I know not what it could be. I believed I had finished my earthly duties… thus I surrendered to the Sea Goddess’ wrath.”

She feels the same pang of needles in her abdomen and clutches it with one hand, wincing against the feeling.

“And yet this makes no sense.”

She looks to the cyclist again, brows creasing.

“If I am dead, then what of Noctis? Why has the star been blanketed by night?”

She winces further and nearly doubles over, teeth finding each other and grinding together. The moment passes and she stands straight, forehead beaded with perspiration. The girl stares at her, expression unreadable.

“Prince Noctis has been AWOL for nearin’ ten years, just like the Oracle. Word was he and his boys escaped the water with their Covenant, but after that the trail goes cold. No one’s seen head or tail of ‘em since the Accordan capital was swept away into the Cygillan.”

She lets her eyes fall to the ground, hand returning from her belly to her side.

“I see.”

Her lips purse together in a thin line and she looks back up, expression firm.

“Take me with you. I cannot prove, in this moment, that I am as I say, but time will surely provide you all the answers you seek as to my authenticity. For now, please know that I will do you no harm and will only seek violence against daemons and mankind alike as a last resort.”

When she doesn’t receive a response immediately, she shifts her weight uncomfortably to one side.

“I do not have much to offer beside my gratitude and prayers for safety.”

The girl rolls her eyes then, letting the gun rest at her side. She beckons with her chin.

“C’mon, then. We gotta push Regina to the nearest outpost or else she’s gonna break down for good this time. If you can carry your own weight, I’ll let you tag along.”

Luna nods and feels the tight prick of tears again, relief strong. She pushes them back and joins the cyclist at the bike’s rear, knees bent and arms braced against the metal frame.

“Push on three,” she says. Luna nods, then looks to her.

“What might I call you?”

“My name’s Solara, but I prefer Sol. It’s less of a mouthful.”

“Sol,” she repeats back.

“Don’t wear it out.”

 

The nearest outpost is nearly abandoned, occupied by just enough Glaives and Hunters to make it not a complete ghost location. They direct the bike to an unguarded corner of the parking lot and Sol breaks into her toolbox, stretching gloves onto her calloused hands before getting to work with a wrench. Luna stumbles away from the workspace and around the corner of a garage, seeking somewhere to sit, but not before Sol gives her the white wrap from around her shoulders.

“I don’t need you oozing in front of these guys,” she’d said, warily eyeing the scattered groups occupying the outpost. “You cover your face and hands with this if it happens, and if anyone asks just say you’re contagious. Got it?”

Bright floodlights surround the station like an outdoor sports stadium, but with far more barbed wire fencing stuck to the perimeter. They’d been let in without much hesitation, and Sol counted it to her luck that they didn’t become immediately suspect. Luna hadn’t planned on mentioning how the floodlights burned her skin and was grateful she didn’t. More than providing a shield in the event miasma began falling from her pores again, the wrap made her feel warmer inside somehow. The wind had a bite to it that aggravated her shoulders so when she fully rounded the corner away from the post’s inhabitants, she slumped against the building’s side and tucked it under her heels, effectively encapsulating her whole body. With her arms on her knees and her head resting on them, it wasn’t long before she slipped into sleep, exerted muscles unwinding for just a blissful moment in this rare safe haven.

The wind never seems to stop in this new, dark world. It whistles through the rusted bones of the outpost, old Niflheimian advertisements flapping gently to make their torn music. It carries into her dream like a peaceful transition, haunting and comforting all the same.

 

“Who are you?”

The sunlight bleeds through the sheer, soft curtains parted before her windows, fabric dancing along the air from the breeze.

“I am a Messenger, sent to the Oracle from above.”

The young girl didn’t falter, just curtly responded.

“You must have the wrong room, Messenger. My mother is the Oracle. I can direct you to her, as she is resting at the moment.”

The Messenger, eyes closed, opens them and kneels before the child, taking in her straight white gown and blue eyes, pupils ringed gently with brown as if the dark of them was sand slowly bleeding into the sea in sweeping arcs, dragged out by the tide. They did not yet tell of fathoms of emotion, layers of sorrow from worldly years built into them. She takes a chance and reaches forward, pushing a lock of soft hair as bright as the midsummer sky from her cheek and tucks it behind her small ear. Unlike most reasonable children her age, she doesn’t move away from the stranger. She quietly sways her shoulders, hands clasped before her belly, lips pursed in curious obedience. The Messenger offers her a smile wider by a centimeter, all at once in awe of this being and overwhelmed by the events of her future.

“I am called Gentiana, young Oracle,” she offers, shamelessly admiring the child. “Though you are not yet ascended to the mantle, your heirloom to the world shall be yours sooner yet than any may plan. It is your destiny to become guide to the Chosen King, born to deliver us from the Scourge.”

The girl nods in understanding, though her immediate obedience shoots Gentiana through with doubt. She is so young, she thinks, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. Small freckles dot her neck and shoulders, far enough apart to connect like constellations. Gentiana sees her looking and stands, offering a hand.

“Come and see your inheritance,” she beckons lightly. The young girl slips her fingers into hers and Gentiana leads them from the room, through the Manor and to the outside, all windows open to allow the open air into the polished corridors.

“Tell to me your name,” Gentiana asks, eyes closed once again against the light.

“I am Lunafreya Nox Fleuret,” the child responds, taking two steps to keep up with one of hers. “And my mother is Sylva Nox Fleuret.”

“Lunafreya…”

She glances down at her, slowing her walk to let her catch up.

“That the Oracle and her family may know peace is the greatest wish of the Gods.”

And the smile given to her, at no expense beside her words, had almost broken her heart upon its receipt. So much that she has to look away before tears fall past her cheeks, their transparent nature breaking the sunlit marble floor into a thousand different realities.

 

The arid desert is a place Ardyn had never cared to visit even when he walked the earth as man and not creature. The sun is too bright, the ground too giving and taking all at once beneath his feet. Scrubby vegetation rooted itself steadfast against the exhaust of their airship. He has the bay door open, various scarves wrapped around his shoulders and mouth, folds of fabric catching sand in their reservoirs. He had taken a pair of goggles given to him by Ulldor, stretching them over his eyes once they descended to a lower altitude along the sand dunes. For the past few miles he’d noticed a change in temperature, small flecks of white falling in among the gold and melting. As they flew closer to their destination, radar pinging in the background, he’d hit the switch and told all surrounding crewmen to evacuate, leaving him to squat at the edge of the ship and play a game of  _ Can I Keep My Balance or Will I Get Thrown Into Those Cactus? _ by himself. Of course, he wasn’t alone for long, a blond blotch kneeling beside him and pulling the goggles from his own eyes and leveling Ardyn in his scrutinizing way.

“We’re approaching the Rift,” Verstael told him, gaze turning to the landscape below them. The ship was flying too fast to make out specific plants, but had he the time, Ardyn knew Verstael would be naming and classifying the flora and fauna in his head, heliotrope eyes judging the atoms of the sand grains.

“Upon arrival, we’ll circle the immediate area and park away from her vicinity. Our initial reports claim she stands far above the Infernian: her corporeal body surpassing 140 meters in height and weighing in metric tons. To believe she could present such an elusive target at those measurements is almost farcical… and yet, such is the nature of the divine among Eos.”

Verstael looks beside him and takes a long, patterned scarf offered by Ardyn, wrapping it several times around his shoulders before tucking his chin and nose into its plushness. He squints against the increasing dirt entering the bay area, eyelashes the color of hay dancing in the fleeting slits of sun from behind growing clouds. An alarm sounds and they exchange glances, nodding once before turning and replacing their eyegear. The ship’s captain had located the Glacian and had circled back, slowly descending to the sand and powering down. Verstael yelled to him to keep the engine idle as he and Ardyn disembarked, faces burning from the coarse, glassy wind.

They began a long trek toward the goddess, eyes and posture alert for any sudden changes. The Chief held a mobile scanner in his hand, two assistants tailing behind him to take down recordings onto clipboards. The environment changed slowly but undeniably, the hot winds replaced by biting gales, ice crunching beneath their boots like hoarfrost does in the mountains. Ardyn spies his reflection in a rock, surface covered by sleet and frozen again overnight. The sun is almost completely blocked by overcast clouds, threatening more precipitation. Verstael kicks a mound of sand and it breaks into crystal pieces, wet dirt joining the whiteness of frost like muddy ash at the end of winter. They’re getting closer.

A forceful wind catches his red cape and rips it from his shoulders, garment flying away with the wind and disappearing within seconds. He watches it go and simply continues on, device in his hands beeping steadily.

“The army is approaching from behind us,” he calls out over the wind, one hand pulling his scarf further over the bridge of his nose. His cheeks are red where they peek out from between the material of the goggles and his loaned accessory, freckles nearly melting into his darkened complexion. “They should arrive to verify our location at 1400 hours.”

“It’s dark for this time of day, isn’t it?” Ardyn comments, raising his voice over the noise. The wind had grown steadily as they walked on but now drowned out any other noise, all vegetation gone, either blown away into the further perimeters of the desert or frozen to death beneath layers of icy discharge. “And certainly colder than expected.”

Verstael had equipped himself with a fur-lined turtleneck beneath his armor in preparation for low temperatures but still Ardyn could see the cold had seeped below his provisions and spiked into his bones, chilling a man even so accustomed to the cold, both from the outside elements and his own inside demeanor. He himself felt no real disconnection but observed how quickly the environment changed the closer they got to Shiva’s supposed location. A few more steep steps into what had become shin-high snow, Verstael stopped and instructed them to turn back.

“Provided that the conditions do not wipe out our data,” he began, breathing heavy behind his protective gear, “We have enough to know where to strike.”

“Will this actually work?” one of the assistants asks. “How far below the ground is she, and can our weapons get past all this snow?”

“Our weapons were made to fell gods!” Ardyn answers for him, gesturing outwards with both of his arms. “Surely there exists no conditions to belittle their power.”

The men seem to agree in silence. When they begin the trudge back, the ground shakes beneath them, small at first but growing in intensity like the wind and snow had. At once they all stop when it jerks like a hit knee, echoing through the airwaves and stunning them into submission. Ardyn turns back to the deeper Rift, eyes barely making out the distant train tracks skirting a large natural fixture. The permafrost beneath the snow cracks audibly and it disrupts their balance, large shards shooting up from the ground in a flash of cold powder, flinging wet sand as if showing Verstael how to properly dislocate it from the floor. Verstael yells at them to run back to the ship, all four men making haste back the direction they came. Their legs had drilled lines into the snow but even those trenches had been nearly filled in. As the ground continues to shake and ice pierces the surface, Ardyn knows what’s causing it. The Glacian had buried herself deep underground, legends said, into the cold dark of the desert, its shades and deep earth cool as the outer arctic and less conspicuous. And yet, her plan to hide from mankind had its flaws, her inherent cold penetrating even the tons of sandy earth and causing an unprecedented phenomenon within the surrounding atmosphere. Awakened by her lover’s sorrowful rage and Eos’ changing landscape, her accumulated deathly frost only made her that much stronger.

“Chief! We need to go faster!” one of the assistants calls, one hand pressed to the earphones atop his head. “The source of these tremors is too close to be safe!”

“Where exactly are they coming from?” Verstael calls over his shoulder, metallic clinking of his armor accompanying their shuffling feet through layers of snow. They’d made it out of what seemed to be the eye of the encroaching storm, clothes becoming soggy with melted powder, and had the ship in their sights as well as the army fleet lead by Colonel Ulldor. Ardyn’s own radio was buzzing and crackling with interference, earpiece not having a power button except at the charging station. He plucks it out and shoves it into his breast pocket, the electronic noise more bothersome than the wind in his ears. He’s suddenly grateful for his shorter hair, longing for the length to warm his ears and neck but appreciating the lack of encumberment in moments like this and surely to follow. Verstael had elected to cover his head with a black cap, hair stuffed into it and pinned down against the conditions. As they neared the edge of the storm, a large explosion sounded from behind them. They all turned to look, smoke joining the growing blizzard of movement. Debris hailed over them in varying chunks, each man covering his own eyes or head except for Ardyn. He stood and watched the clearing mess, hands migrating to his hips.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Verstael yells into his earpiece, each assistant pulling away from their own devices but not daring to entirely remove them as Ardyn had done. He pulls it from his pocket and presses it close, listening as Ulldor’s voice breaks through the fuzz.

“Sorry, -hief! -he Gl--ian --”

“I gave explicit orders not to fire whilst we’re on the ground!”

“Chief!”

The ground shakes and sand and ice together begin falling into several rapidly-forming crevasses around them, seemingly stemming from inside of the storm. Another loud noise accompanies a rain of frozen shrapnel, large pieces flying hundreds of feet into the air and hailing back down around them. Behind the mess Ardyn sees a gargantuan blue hand, air around it misty and leaking condensation from the change in temperature. He swiftly turns to the men in his retinue.

“The Glacian emerges!”

All at once, they issue orders through their radios, assistants unleashing guns and firing into the fog. A harsh, wet wind washes over them, dampening their clothes all over again with beads of humidity. The hand turns into an arm, and then a shoulder, bracing itself against the earth and pushing down. The ground quakes and rocks with her movement, icy form fighting and winning against the heat of the desert. What once was wet and hot like the jungle now turns cold and freezes them almost to the spot, Verstael ripping the goggles from his face before they stick. His eyes sport red rings around them from the pressure of the environment, whites pink and bloodshot. The assistants press hands to their ears at the same time Ardyn’s pop from a shift in air pressure, as if he’d just climbed too high too quickly. He too plucks off his goggles, gritting his teeth as they nearly pull the flesh from his bones. He narrows his eyes at the ice crusted around them, lenses thick with frosty whiteness. He finds Verstael’s eyes and an understanding passes between them.

They have to run.

At once, they take off in the direction of the ship, clearly outmatched this close to the enemy. Ulldor has ordered the ships within range to begin firing. Large, molten shots of artillary pucker the ground around the Glacian’s slowly emerging body. Her shoulder is now visible, an ear and hair following surely. Just that small area of her is stories tall from where they stand, blue form juxtaposed to the golden desert surrounding her chosen bed. If the Colonel and the army can keep her distracted long enough for their reconnaissance team to reconvene at the airship, they just might survive this encounter.

Ardyn hears a panicked scream from behind him and turns, Verstael following suit instinctively. One of the assistants is kneeling beside the other, trying to pull his body from the snow. Where he’d fallen, the frost had grown vine-like up his legs and rooted him to the spot, spreading along his extremities and onto his comrade. They all see large icicles speeding toward them, fired from the fingertips of the Ice Goddess. One hits the still-standing assistant and he falls into a heap of red, ground stained and almost immediate consumed by white ice. The fallen man yelps in alarm and attempts to free himself but is impaled thereafter by another round of frozen ammunition, arms going slack onto the ground. Ardyn looks back ahead to see Verstael, thankfully still running and making good time at it. Crystalline shards fly past them at lethal speeds, crashing into the ground and creating all sorts of disruptions to their path. Ardyn nearly steps into a hole created nearly instantaneously before him, narrowly avoiding twisting his ankle by leaping over it. He hears what sounds like a glacier breaking and swerves to Verstael, grabbing him by the shoulders. He protests inaudibly but Ardyn grips him tighter, forcing himself and the Chief to dematerialize. Just as they speed on, ship within sight, a cluster of shards passes through them and shoot past the airship, crash into the ground and break apart, and lodge into its side, respectively, earning a silent gratefulness from them both.

He forces them into the open bay door, allowing himself to let go and materialize once inside, bodies crashing and rolling along the cold metal floor. He finds a handhold and latches onto it, body jerked roughly to a stop. Verstael flies further than him, unable to get a grip as he slips from Ardyn’s grasp and hits the far wall harshly, the sound of ice cracking against metal. The ship ascends, then, idle engine thrown into emergency start to lift them from danger. The icy tendrils which had crawled up the side fracture and break away as it lifts into the air, bay door struggling to close against the accumulated frost. Ardyn stands, legs shooting out from beneath him several, slippery times before he gains his balance and slides over to Verstael, ground covered in rapidly-melting snow. He feels stiff and sore, muscles fighting against the discomfort of being soaked to the bone through layers and layers, ears ringing from both anxiety and altitude sickness.

He gathers Verstael up and inspects his face, spotting his hat and goggles cast across the open area. He peels open one pair of his eyelids then lets them fall back together, body unresponsive. A large gash bleeds sluggishly from across his nose, forehead blooming a large, purple bruise. Beneath his furry collar, Ardyn spots the Scourge pulsing like tentacles, eagerly reinvigorated by the proximity of its master. Not now. Had he aggravated it to life by saving them from the Glacian’s attack?

An overhead broadcast alerts all troops to their stations, gunmen clamoring down the halls in heavy suits, ground battalions readying for descent. Ardyn hears voices from Verstael’s earpiece and plucks it from his ear, placing it hear his own and listening.

“Chief Besithia! Respond, goddammit!” Ulldor orders, annoyance evident. Ardyn presses the  _ Speak _ button but reels against the feedback. Ulldor speaks before he can.

“Chief? What’s your status? Where’s the rest of your men?”

“I’m afraid the Chief is out of commission,” he says loudly, unknowing if the Colonel can hear him. There’s static before he can make out Ulldor’s words, the man repeating himself.

“Izunia?! This is Bestihia’s channel. Where is he?”

“Not to worry,” he says again, reaffirming Verstael’s state and again finds him unconscious. “I shall usher him to safety; he’s been dealt significant damage.”

Ulldor responds but the words are lost over the airwaves, gunfire joining the ship’s engine and passing wind. The bay door unleashes a terrible groan, hinges bracing themselves against some outside force. A large dent appears in the low light, then is washed over by a sudden greyness, outside air so cold it almost freezes the hole shut. Pieces of ice wash over the floor of the ship then are sucked back toward the gap. Ardyn grabs Verstael by the arm, trying to gain traction against the rocking of the ship, equilibrium disrupted by the attack. The airlock alarm buzzes and he knows it’s time to go.

Another attack rocks the ship, throwing Ardyn to his knees. He uses the opportunity to load Verstael onto his back and braces himself as best he can, trudging to the exit door that leads to the ship’s inner hallways. Verstael doesn’t respond to the jostling, worryingly, limply complying to where Ardyn moves him. He quickly unravels the scarf from his neck and uses it to tie Verstael’s wrists together, effectively securing them together around his own shoulders. Not a moment later, he slips and nearly loses hold of the Chief, the makeshift handcuffs pulling taut against the column of his neck and forcing Verstael’s unconscious body to a halt. Ardyn hefts him back into place, smacking the door’s switch and rushing further into the ship.

Armored people rush past in formation, guns drawn and held to their fronts. He glances around before deciding to go left, following the flow of traffic. They round a windowed corner, and despite the sticker proudly proclaiming it to have been made of bulletproof glass, it sports a long crack along the length of it. They’re surrounded by tens of hundreds of Imperial ships, all firing onto the Glacian. Down below, she’s almost fully erect, one foot braced against the ground, the other slowly emerging from the disturbed sand. Even at their current elevation she could reach one arm up and touch a ship or twelve, long limbs covered with a biting cold too unforgiving for man to understand. Her face, placid and unmoving as a statue, is framed by intricate braids falling from her scalp. Her clothing, formed into an icy lace, moves with her almost fluidly as she frees herself from a millennia-long slumber. The aura of sheer strength emitted by both her legends and her presence tickles Ardyn’s spine in what he identifies as something akin to fear. She darts forward, far removed from her sluggish removal from the ground, and makes for a cluster of firing ships. She plants one foot into the ground and swings the other high into the air, taking out several of them in a row with a single sweep, unbothered by the resulting implosions of fuel and electricity sending fireworks across the sky. Metal rains down and burns holes into the white ground. Ardyn is certain the heat has turned the sand into glass, green and purple in its unrefined nature, joined by the bones and sinew of men reduced to corpses by her assault. In response, the closest ships break from formation and take to spreading as far apart as possible, aiming to eliminate mass casualties of both man and machinery. She strikes out with one palm and unleashes a flurry of snow and thick ice columns, effectively decommissioning the ships in a wide area. As they fall to the ground, heavy and unmobile, she again strikes with a foot and creates white powder from their frozen forms. Some of the arterial spray washes over the window Ardyn watches from and he takes a step backwards, awed by the might of the once-sleeping titan. He darts away from the window, racing down the hallway with precious cargo in-tow. After hesitating and trying to decipher the unknown language pointing him to what he hopes is the infirmary, he makes it to the barracks instead, stomping a foot in frustration. Out of options, he makes his way to his own temporary quarters and unloads Verstael onto the bed, activating the emergency system which bolts the window closed and secures fixtures to the ground. In addition, it permits access to a series of straps inside the bedframe meant to hold down humans. He belts the thickest one to Verstael’s middle and pulls on it to test its strength, finding it sufficient against the rocking of the ship. The man still hasn’t awoken from his state through all of the noise and movement, brain forced much like the ship to take evasive measures. Before leaving him, Ardyn takes the earpiece from him and plugs it into his own ear, securing the room’s door before bolting back down the hallway.

“Ulldor!” he calls into it, hoping for an immediate response.The exigencies of the army haven’t hit crisis level yet so he needs the Colonel to be available.

“Izunia,” Ulldor answers back. Ardyn finds himself relieved. “What’s your status?”

“Never you mind,” he replies, unconcerned by the trail his sopping boots leave along the ground. “How do I get to where you are?”

“Are you insane? My ship is thousands of feet away from yours; you really believe us to place all the important people in the care of a single vessel?”

The man was somewhat smart, Ardyn had to give him that.

“Verstael is secure but I must see what goes on with the battle. How long until the Weapon reaches us here?”

“It departed Gralea twenty minutes ago and is inbound as we speak. Why, you want to fire it yourself, you mad man?”

“The pleasure should be the Chief’s, but as he is indisposed I shall carry it out as his proxy.”

“...You’re serious.”

Ardyn feels himself smile despite the very real threat outside, distant explosions rattling the teeth in his jaw.

“I imagine you have no reservations.”

“Against you, the Chief’s proxy? Not any I wanna say out loud.”

Now that’s an answer he likes to hear.

“Direct me to the correct ship and arrange a passenger transfer. I’ll be taking over operations from here on out.”

 

Verstael hasn’t dreamt since he was a child, nightly terrors he was forced to reconcile with himself through repeated self-aggrandizement finally subsiding into a nothingness that, perhaps, should have worried someone. Anyone but him, it seemed, but it wasn’t anyone else but him living within his own consciousness. Now, consciousness joined to that of a something, a someone he couldn’t reconcile no matter how hard he thought and reassured himself and the universe, the dreams had returned with an inflamed, inflated presence, scorching his unwaking mind with a dangerous desperation that made him, metaphorically, take a step back and reexamine his priorities in life. In this instance, he was beside a set of ruins. Letting his eyes roam the crumbling architecture and attempting to log the date from which it could have been conceived, he starts when a hand drops to his shoulder.

He turns to see a blond woman smiling at him. Her hair is cropped short to just below her jaw and it swings when she moves her head, tilting it in a question, lips pressed into a small smile.

“Another purveyor of the old world?” she asks him, circling around to his front and clasping her hands together.

“I’ve not dreamt of seeing someone so far out into this land, let alone a man of such a high caliber as yourself!”

She leans over and lifts one of his arms, darting under and around it to more closely observe his regalia. He twists to try and catch where she goes but she’s quick on her feet, plucking and poking at points of interest along his armor.

“This is of a fine quality,” she murmurs appreciatively, shaking a section of his breastplate between two hands. He feels himself sneering and finally manages to pull away, eyeing her with suspicion.

“Just who are you?” he asks lowly. She fixes him with a set of large, sky blue eyes, the gold of her headband glittering like a lake at noon.

“I would sooner ask the same of you, stranger,” is her reply. It’s stubborn and evasive at its core, but presented from such a young, dutiful looking person it makes him doubt her intentions for a moment. She saunters past him, gloved hands lifting her dress up out of the dirt.

“I should hope you have come to document these ruins, all but scrubbed from the annals of history,” she starts, back to him. Her shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath, one hand pushing hair from in front of her face. “It is on good authority that they date to the days of the Old Kingdoms, but I wish to investigate more of their stairwells and myriad halls galore.”

Another sigh.

“But alas, that  f iancé of mine is quite late to our date, and I am reluctant to begin work without him. He would be ever so cross were I not to save some discoveries for him.”

She eyes him over one shoulder.

“Would you accompany me? That you and I are here at the same time must be something of fate. Yea, our hair even matches!”

Once again, she’s on him and taking both his hands into hers, delicately pulling him along towards the leafy ruins. They start up a set of old stone stairs, the heels of her sandals clicking on the chalky material. He lets her guide him a ways before speaking.

“Aera Mils Fleuret, first Oracle of the Gods and prognosticator of the Founder King.”

She slows to a stop, back still to him. He lets his hand drop to his side and she turns to him, face fallen into one of neutral displeasure. He smiles lopsidedly at her, crossing his arms together and shifting his weight.

“Be it far from me to state I dislike bearing bad news, but your  f iancé isn’t coming; leastways for some time. Is this how you plan to pass the years?”

“I have long been an admirer of old world structures,” she assents, looking at the surrounding stone fixtures with mild interest. “But the evils which lie within create barriers to my advancement inside. Somehow, those places desolate and forgotten are less so to the creatures of the Stars, their veritable nests seeping from the walls and into the water table. I only aim to satiate scholarly curiosity.”

“Pity,” Verstael replies, sniffing and suppressing a sneeze. “A wealth of knowledge resides within those creatures. Per your curiosity, I would venture you’ve seen what multitudinal structures they contain.”

“Corruption,” Aera says, head tilted upwards as she looks on him from a few steps above. “Festering sick which burns and decays all it touches. I do not concern myself with their machinations; only the conference of their schedules proceeds to interest me, in the event I should require to catch them unawares. In their sleep, perhaps, could I purify the land of its blight.”

He looks her up and down, openly critical. “How do you plan to accomplish that?”

She levels an open hand to her side and brings forth a long, pointed trident from the air. He recognizes the magic from Ardyn and the Lucis Caelum and pulls back out of instinct. She flips it and aims its end at him, advancing in tandem with his retreat. His back hits a column and he notes it, eyes turning back towards the threat. She wields the weapon with a frightening confidence, arms tensed to reveal seasoned muscles. She’s a warrior Oracle, he realizes.

Slowly and carefully, he lifts both hands to his face in surrender, gaze never leaving hers.

“The tales of you, I must cede, do not implant justice to your majesty.”

A thin eyebrow rises and falls on her face, shifting the golden headband with it. Her eyes carry the same fearceness he’d once witnessed in the young Sylva, language exceedingly polite but undeniable defiance in her posture hinted at personal agendas discordant to the Empire’s. He swallows once, hoping it remains invisible behind his collar, and continues.

“I find the accounts of your soft, yielding person far less credible with each moment that passes. Perhaps you would be relieved to learn that Ardyn now presents a much different portrait than when first he came to me.”

She lowers her trident from his neck to his chest, gaze lingering on his all the while. She chances glancing at his throat and spies a blackness, pushing the fabric of his collar aside and studying the thick tendrils creeping up from his sternum.

“You are his guide, then? The one who will direct him to the afterlife?”

“I am his mentor,” Verstael corrects. “In as much as he is my colleague. He is still new unto the world and I am there beside him to lead his hand to victory. Your Founder King is long dead, Oracle. Now is the time for him to rise against the wicked Lucians and destroy everything Somnus built. If only you and he could rejoice together.”

Her lips curl back in discontent and she levies the trident to her side once more, staking her claim into the ruins by forcing its edge into the stone below. He flinches at the crack of metal-on-stone and chances meeting her eyes again, noting how her pupils didn’t dilate or shrink even a centimeter while threatening him. They burn into his soul with a profound disappointment.

“Contrary though it may seem,” Aera starts, digging the point of her trident into the ground further, chips of the block breaking away and disappearing into dust, “My gratitude extends to you, stranger. It is you who has pushed him into the depths of despair and rage, and still you will usher him toward the gods’ Light to find his salvation at the end of all the Kings’ wrath. For your service to the prophecy, commendation is due. But at the cost of your humanity will the fires of closure finally burn to your core. Treasure what remains, lest the meaning of your sacrifice be lost to history, as he once was.”

She dismisses her weapon and turns around, feet kicking up gentle clouds as she ascends the stairs to the ruins. Verstael leans his head against the cool column and lets himself sink further back into unconsciousness, green leaves melting into dark, swirling shades of black and violet, a void thicker and deeper than any basement or daemon-dwelling swallowing him down. All the time, all the blood, for what? To fulfill the gods’ blasted prophecy?

It very well almost crushes the life out of him. But that sliver of hope-- the revenant that refuses to die against all odds-- leads him from the dark and into felicity. That is, back to himself, with full agency of his limbs and of his mind, where he discards the restraints tying him down, grabs hold of the long scarf set beside his bed, and ambles towards the viewing stage, its wide, crafted window offering a full picture of the events happening below.

Feeling a tickle, he reaches up and brushes a finger to his nose, the appendage coming away glittering red. Electing to ignore the stream once it refuses to stop, he focuses on the fiery scene of the Glacian taking on several hostile ships at once. Ground troops advance toward her, their demise kept away by the airborne units dividing her attention among them. Her solid flesh is pockmarked in several places, black, burning holes slowly encroaching on all of her reality. His head pounds with pressure but he braces himself against it, hands finding anchors in the folds of his sleeves. An intense, burning sensation creeps its way up his neck and touches his lower jaw, freezing the muscles and tendons there with horrifying precision. He works it back and forth to loosen it and fights the tingling threatening to break it from his face, cartilage popping audibly with every pass. He feels as though he’s going to fall apart.

But then, in the near distance, he spots him. Ardyn rides down toward the Glacian, grandiloquent stature unmistakeable in an open bay door. The large gun mounted there, glowing an angry red, center like an unblinking eye against the masses of white coating the rift floor, lowering from the ship’s floor and into the open air. Adagium rides it all the way through its descent, machine halting and bouncing before taking an eerily still place in the air. Raising the remote detonator as if in victory, he basks in the eminent firing for a few, precious moments, watching another series of Imperials ships fall to their graves, before pressing the trigger in a flourish of movement. A light so bright it causes him to turn away and cover his eyes behind the blade of his hand pulses from the heavy gun, rocking the ship it’s attached to with unrelenting force. The beam crackles through the air and compresses into one, massive destructive force, any ship in the immediate area fleeing at maximum velocity to escape certain doom. Shiva takes note of the withdrawal and stares out towards the beam, face unreadable even in its gargantuan presence. She stands and takes a step forward but the force of the attack hitting her sends her stumbling backwards, mouth opening and limbs sprawling in surprise. Her balance disrupted, she gets pushed by the momentum and crashes into the mountain behind her, lower calves destroying the railroad and causing an avalanche of snow, sand, and twisted metal to cascade to the ground. She slides down to the rift floor, arms pulling one-fourth, one-half, and then nearly the entirety of the mountain’s mass with her. Ardyn’s ship had taken the opportunity to pass through the front defense and align with her again from a new angle, charging up one final blow, the sky turning dark and ashy as energy pulled from the atmosphere to form the killing shot. Deflated and defeated, the Glacian could only turn to face her assailant head-on as the secondary beam shot from the ship, draining it of power and causing an outrage across all platforms. First, the main engine stopped firing, as evidenced by the lack of embers radiating from its tail. Then, shortly after, the auxiliary engines ceased functioning, the machine dropping from the sky like a brick. Surrounding ships had their engines cut and fell too, one massive machine after another. The aftershock of the second shot hits Verstael’s ship and the lights flicker, steady maneuvering disrupted momentarily before restoring equilibrium in the air. He tries not to squint against the burning pyre tearing its way across Shiva’s skin, burning up her clothes and hair first before torching the highways of her flesh. She collapses onto the rift floor, knocked onto her elbows and shoved several meters through the snowy sand. There, she lies motionless, face dipped between her arms toward the ground. Her chest stills and a sound, much like a rupture of a dam, intensifies before dying out, a deathly calmness pervading the Rift. The resultant fires burn out quickly when faced with the immeasurable coldness of her body, but were ultimately enough to fell the deity. She remains motionless, measurements on their radars and readers ceased completely. The viewing stage is completely silent save for the dry sobs wracking Verstael’s body, his hand pressed to his mouth to suppress the noise, red blood oozing from between his pressure-whitened fingers. They pulse dully, circulation cut, but he doesn’t care. He cares only that he continues breathing to watch this glorious moment, the amalgamation of all his work unfolded before him in painstaking clarity. The Empire has just killed a goddess.

 

The remaining troops and leaders reconvene at the edge of the Rift, shuddering in their metal armor as the vestiges of the glacial battle sweep over their ranks. All told, seven ships of one-hundred and sixteen survived the assault, four of them, including the main weapon, were destroyed upon impact to the ground after firing the decisive blow. Reports after the fact have the area marked as dangerous, a swirling cloud of heavy precipitation growing ever larger over the corpse of the Ice Goddess. Verstael limps through the cool sand, the sun setting in a fascination of greens, purples, and oranges, his front completely covered with cracked, brown blood. He nods toward the infantry who salute or otherwise congratulate him on the victory, numbly searching the masked faces for one in particular. He makes it inside of the final ship and falls against a sleek wall, weight dragging against the surface with a squealing groan. He lets his breaths come out in hot gasps, body surging with torment and nirvana all at once. A helmeted soldier leans down and takes his arm, inspecting him for damage.

“Anything I can do to help, sir?” he asks. Verstael spits in pain and presses an open palm to the soldier’s helmet, pushing down on it before gripping the bottom lip and ripping it from his head. There, beneath the blank metal facade, is Ardyn, hours late to the roll call and presumed to have died amidst the wreckage of the main ship.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Vertsael grunts, iron on his tongue taking on a new venom. Ardyn grins and helps situate him more comfortably, Verstael grunting all the while. When the surges of agony subside enough to form a coherent thought, the Chief looks beside him to where Adagium has settled in, one arm propped on his drawn knee. Ardyn looks back at him, smile melted into an exhausted mask.

“Well done, us,” he croaks, lifting a hand in Verstael’s direction. Verstael eyes it, takes it, squeezes it, then lets it go, arm flopping to his side wearily.

“I now commiserate with your ability to sleep for years at a time,” he comments. Ardyn blows air from his nose as an ironic laugh. Taking his time, he observes the state they’re in, Verstael nearly covered from head to foot in dried blood and sporting a good-sized bruise above one arched brow. He himself has come out rather unscathed, coat tattered at the edges and what little flesh is exposed is covered in a sweaty soot, exhaust from the ship and its burning remains clinging to his person in thick layers. When he moves, he sheds dust and ash onto the floor, the draft from vents or walking feet blowing it about. Sensing this, Verstael coughs and shakily covers his mouth.

“We need to get you changed,” he says, voice clouded by his hand. He observes Ardyn in his peripheral, chest heaving. Ardyn sits up and leans in, bringing his cloud of fire and brimstone with him.

“After we change you. Blood does look so unflattering once it has dried.”

Through his haze of semi-consciousness and blood loss, Verstael finds humor in his words and laughs weakly, head settling back against the smooth wall. Ardyn carefully hefts him from under his armpits and secures his legs around his waist, waiting as the man wraps his arms around his neck and tucks his head in-between their bodies. With no large amount of effort, Ardyn carries him away from the hub of noise and distraction, heart settling into a steady rhythm as it harmonizes with Verstael’s. It is, by far, the most peaceful moment of the excursion. He holds on to the feeling of victory for as long as it allows him to.


	18. Inordinance

“Wherefore do you run, child? Death is no stranger to you.”

A large blast of fire gushes overhead and she barely misses it, sliding across the slick marble floor on her thighs. She hardly has time to right herself before Ifrit sends another wave towards her, bathing to throneroom in a heat so fierce it calls a red rash to her skin, raising and deepening with the prolonged proximity. Luna finds Ardyn’s eyes from where he resides, smugly commentating from the second tier of stairs. Ifrit is fast, though, charging for her and swiftly bringing his blade down on her head. She braces herself with her trident, catching the force of the attack and willing her weapon not to break in half. It stays true despite the weight and she pushes his sword away only to be swept aside by his other hand. His knuckles dig into her ribs and send her against the far wall, calling down a rain of chipped stone and mosaic pieces. She hits the ground and coughs, then retches from the debris. It pushes water from her lungs and she gags on it, clear fluid moistening the dust where she lay. She pushes herself up onto one elbow and relies on her trident to take her the rest of the way, vision blackening around the edges.

“Stop this…” she says, but it comes out as barely a croak. Large fingers wrap around her and crush her hands to her side, the vertigo of being suddenly lifted shaking her stomach again. She can smell the festering rot of the Infernian, his skin boiling away from the Scourge. Though it pains her greatly, she struggles in his fist to grasp her weapon once more, wrist fighting to wrap around the ornate polearm. Ifrit turns and raises her to the sky, growling rabidly. Her struggle does nothing-- doesn’t even register on his radar-- as he channels flames to burn her. She feels her clothes catch fire first, sweat and tears barely keeping the heat at bay. Everything goes orange, then black, first from fire then from magic. Ifrit grunts in pain, gritting his teeth, then is forced to let her go when she burns him back. Infernal magic spills from both her palms, radiating throughout her trident and coursing all over her body. The charred layers of her clothing scatter in fits of wind and abandon her frame, overcoat falling in burnt tatters to the floor and out of the open ceiling. Her hair falls from its crude bun, golden locks spilling across her exposed neck and shoulders, undershirt fluttering. Once his fist has released her completely, she pushes the churning, almost bursting magic from her body and strikes him in the chest, magic pulsating in ribbons through the hot air between them. He stumbles back and lands hardly to the stairs, head crashing beside the throne and staying there. His chest labors to keep moving, red eyes rolling in his head. Wasting no time, she lowers herself onto his sternum and steps to stand atop one collarbone, trident poised beside her. The Infernian doesn’t respond, the dark, abysmal magic of her spirit contesting the sordid constituency of Adagium’s. His own eyes mirror Lunafreya’s, dripping molasses-like down his cheeks and onto the floor, bright sparks igniting then dying against the exposed, grey foundation. Where her black tears meet his flesh bubbles and burns, her skin pallid and grey, irises bright yellow. She levels Ardyn with her gaze, surroundings motion-blurred as he meanders toward her.

“Well, well!” he declares, swinging an arm to the side. In his hand appears a wicked, red scythe, weight dragging his appendage to the ground and screeching against the floor. It speaks of unbearably detestable deaths, clipped edges singing in distorted harmony with the air itself.

“All that daemonic energy and nowhere to put it. I suppose you’ve still reserves more of it deep inside the well of yourself?”

His scythe grows larger in size and glows red-hot, blackness whispering from its skeletal form. She remains steadfast, neck crawling the closer he gets.

“Tell me,” she asks, studying how he looms in front of her, shadow as cold as cemetary shade, muted moon unable to rightfully cast such a figure, stature frightening shades of vermillion and crimson. “Do you ever think of Aera?”

This causes him to pause, face vexed. She takes the opportunity to continue.

“What afterlife will this path reward you with,” she blinks, sick streams racing one another for freedom when she tilts her head. “Knowing there exists an exit for even the most damned?”

He stays where he is, scythe unmoved from his side, listening. She can’t help the rueful chuckle that escapes her mouth, bringing with it a small flood of blackened water.

“To claim you are below me is prideful and untrue. We are one and the same: beings forsaken by the universal truths we once held unassailable, indivisible. Though you have marinated in the belly of hatred for far longer than I, to say we know nothing of our brother’s suffering is a negligence most wilful.”

She bangs the spear-end of her trident against the flesh of the Infernian below and he cries out, sharpened canines reared from his gums. Ardyn smiles and his own vicious pearls cut through his silhouette, catching light from his weapon. When she lifts the end of her own instrument, point and winged-end carrying pockets of divine blood with them, it glows gently, lengthening from the imbuement. She leans down and places a hand into the pooling mess, eyes drawing shut. It soaks into her remaining clothes and so follows the purple-blackness of his infection, drawn into her like Cygillan water. The deity starts and she follows, throat expanding and contracting. She meets Ardyn’s eyes again and fluid dribbles from between her lips, sclera and irises alike drowning in sick Scourge, their reservoirs filling to the brim and cascading over the edge. Ardyn watches, frozen, as the infection leaves Ifrit’s body. The corruption lifts, slowly at first, then with alarming speed as it taken into Lunafreya’s bloodstream. He realizes, with renewed clarity, that this was Bahamut’s intention all along.

He grips his scythe in both hands and swings it overhead. It comes down on her faster than he can track, weapon’s sharp edge lodging deep into flesh. Whose flesh, he sees, is red and alfame. Ifrit has used his hand to protect the Oracle, eyes burning with an angry justice. He stands slowly, head bleeding lazily from contact with the floor, and Ardyn has to fight to dislodge the scythe from the bones and muscles of his large palm. He finally slips it free and lets it drop to the floor, dark red liquid spilling on top of his head as he stares in surprise at his own hands. The heat emanated from the Infernian had swiftly and mercilessly cauterized his phalanges, cloth gloves singed away to reveal red, meaty flesh and white bones. His sleeves are still aflame and he exclaims, patting them furiously then wincing when the fire makes contact with his wounded palms. Furious, he discards his overcoat and stomps out the flame, boots licked and smelling of sweet burnt rubber. Distracted by the threat and bent on eliminating it, he remembers the cause and glances upwards, eyes met with the majesty of the Infernian. He and Lunafreya are touching foreheads, ancient words exchanged while she stands atop one palm. His other lies limply by his side, rivulets of blood dripping to the slick marble. Ardyn starts forward but slips on a puddle of the same divine essence, just catching himself from falling. Ifrit lifts his bloody hand and touches the Oracle’s cheek, long nail lifted to avoid cutting her face. He marks one, then the other greyed cheek with his blood, a fraction of his fingerprint visible in the wet pattern. He then gently drags it down the bridge of her nose, creating a thin line ranging from her hairline to the base of her throat. Their covenant complete, he deposits her in a remote corner and returns to Ardyn, hands held out in front of him.

 

_ Your reign ends, O Cursed One. Before had I been subject to whims of diseased flesh; now, my mind and body join once more under rightful influence. Through the covenant you are doomed for death... and yet the notion of painlessness thorns my psyche. _

 

He reaches out and plucks his fallen sword, reenergized by the contact, and assumes a battle-ready stance. Now in the burning shadow of the Infernian, Ardyn backs away and sneers, hair blown from the frame of his face by backdraft, exposed bones bleaching from the growing heat.

 

_ My clarity returns and judgment is rightly passed. In the waiting stead of the True King, my blade shall lighten his path by rendering you limbless. Prepare yourself, Adagium. _

 

Boiling blackness has surfaced to his hands and works tirelessly to repair the scalded flesh. Ardyn leans over sloppily, wet palms greasing the handle of his blade, and returns it to its scythe form. A wry chuckle works its way into the room from his throat.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

He lifts a hand to his face and streaks his open palm down it, smearing the sweaty, bristled skin with a blackness so dark it seems to draw all light into it.

“So if I must face you again, let it be to the death of self and body. I promise no such mercy as enslavement this time, Infernian.”

Ifrit, legs poised and arms raised to hold his sword, narrows his eyes.

 

_ This cursed foe would not choose to defy his fate? The Bladekeeper, in His arrogance, has declared all of your kind unworthy of life. So He seeks to destroy the world and set it anew. This had been and remains the one goal of Bahamut, subjecting those who object to the torture of captivity-- for those priviledged, to death, swift and definitive. Born from the dust of our stars, and destined to return to them, though given a free will, you would allow your future to be ordained by a hostile entity? Allowing Him the satisfaction of a victory clean, with all resistance reduced to nothingness and thus unable to hold accountable the Draconian for his actions? This impudence is the pervasive stain of humanity, scorching its roots and dooming its future. _

 

“Future?” Ardyn asks incredulously. Ifrit brings his sword down upon Ardyn, who eludes him on the tight staircase. He strikes out but the god parries the attack, golden crown dancing with the life of the flames.

“I care not for the future of humanity! My death has been inordinate long enough, made longer still by the refusal of cockroaches to accept their demise. For if their world falls, I will continue to suffer this meaningless existence, until such a time as the True King,” he spits, “Deems to deliver me from wretchedness.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Luna calls, and both the Infernian and Ardyn turn to her. She’s stumbling, one hand clutched to her abdomen, the other outstretched before her. Paths cleared by sweat drive through Ifrit’s blood on her face. She brings both hands to her mouth and screams in agony, visage veiled by a curtain of matted hair. Where she held her middle, blackness bleeds out uninhibited from a straight incision, uncoagulated and unhealing. Ardyn notes it as the place he buried his knife into her and chastises himself for the pang of guilt that hits his own stomach. Fat droplets hit the floor at her feet as she continues stumbling his way.

“Noctis… can no longer purge the darkness…” she tries, lines highlighting her face. She makes it to the bottom stair and collapses, boneless, and stays there. There’s silence in the throneroom for what feels like ages. Ardyn turns to Ifrit, mocking.

“What,” he begins, and the deity observes him. “Not going to assist your savior?”

Ifrit responds, mouth pursed.

 

_ She has taken the Scourge and now pays the price for her power. I am unable to render assistance against a darkness so thick, drawn from the Blue Menace and now from myself, amplified still by tens of saved souls. _

 

He looks remorseful for a moment, long, dark hair swinging from the fire’s draft. Ardyn dismisses his scythe at once, taking careful steps towards Lunafreya.

“The Blue Menace… the Sapphire Weapon?” he asks aloud, but not expecting an answer. By how quickly her body has been decaying he reckons she had been hanging on by sheer willpower this whole time in the Citadel. The Infernian moves and he starts, blade at the ready. But the god is bowing to one knee, sword stuck into the hard ground with a resounding rumble. Ardyn hears the doors creak open and turns, eyes narrowing at the dark silhouette which fills the doorway. Another interloper?

The first person shields their eyes from the Infernian’s light, hand glistening with sweat already. One, then two more people follow them, each having their own reaction to the sweltering sarcophagus of the throneroom.

“Finally…” he calls out, eyeing the four-men retinue before him, clad all in black, coats and capes alike catching the backdraft of flames.

“Noctis, the One and True King, returns to Insomnia. I’d have greeted you earlier,” he says, lowering his hands to his side and pacing. “But as I was… otherwise engaged, your presence went very much unnoticed in this quarter of things.”

“Is that Luna?” he hears one of them say. Across the broken floor, Ardyn spies young Prompto, purplish eyes reflecting the orange of the deity’s magic. He looks to Gladiolus, who nods, then meets Ardyn’s eyes. The bridge of his nose creases when he snarls, the expression a full example of the word. Ardyn feels one side of his mouth lift in disgusted response, watching the silver gun manifest in the child’s hand. Ignis brings a hand to his shoulder and Prompto responds by looking at him. He shakes his head back and forth, signalling him to stand down, and Prompto does so reluctantly. Noctis steps forward and speaks up.

“What have you done to Luna?”

“Nothing she hadn’t brought upon herself,” he answers honestly. He glances at Ifrit to verify his passivity. The god remains down to one knee, chest moving up and down slowly with his breaths. His eyes then find the charred mess of his overcoat, black streaks of soot swirling with the wind. He continues.

“Though you may find my word difficult to take, it was she who sought me first; I had no intention of foraging the ocean’s bottom for one girl’s cold corpse.”

Noctis makes a noise of distrust but it’s Ignis who steps forward, joining the Prince.

“And we’re to believe she came here willingly?”

“Against all advice and sundry, undoubtedly.”

“What’s he doing here?” Noctis asks. Ardyn looks to where he gestures at Ifrit, raising an eyebrow as if he’d just noticed him there.

“This one? Wasting everyone’s time,” he spits. He raises his sword and lashes out at the Infernian, drawing a powerful cry from him. Ardyn rips his blade from Ifrit’s arm and makes to attack again but is cut off by a flash of blue steel knocking his weapon away. It clatters across the floor and bangs into the throne. He turns to face Noctis, voice dropping dangerously.

“You really should not come betwixt a man and his prey.”

The Prince has grown taller since last they spoke, his legs slim and long, waist trim with layers of rich, black finery. He has the eyes of his father now, deep blues contrasting with thick brows, turned downwards in concentration. Ardyn relents, backing away from the deity, who watches the ongoings silently. He sweeps forward and catches Noct by surprise, one hand closing in around his throat. The Prince struggles against him as he’s lifted into the air, hands finding purchase on his lower arms. Black struggles out between his fingers and drips onto Noctis’ clothing, his Adam’s apple fighting for freedom below his palm. The other three start forward and Ardyn barks out an order to them,.

“Come any closer and his head will become a separate entity from his body.”

They hesitate, then stop, but Prompto is bouncing on his heels as if ready to dash forward at a moment’s notice. Ardyn looks back to Noctis, who struggles to keep his weight off of his neck.

“Call off your men. We can’t very well have a civil chat with hostiles about.”

Noct chokes, pulling one knee up and shoving Ardyn’s elbows down further to alleviate the pain.

“If you want to fight me, fine,” he grunts, face losing its color. “But we do this the fair way. Away from them. Away from Luna.”

He inclines his head curiously.

“You believe she’s still alive?”

Noct gasps out as Ardyn tightens his grip, hands raking the thick lengths of his arms with more vigor. All at once he lets the Prince drop, his body falling like a stone to the stairwell and tumbling down it. He lands on the second pier, joined by his three friends who lift him up with concern.

“Such loyalty,” he purrs. Ignis tends to Noctis’ bleeding nose while Prompto looks up, anger burning in his gaze.

“What did we ever do you?!” he rages.

“Prompto!” Gladio calls out. Prompto ignores him and continues.

“You, the Emperor, my dad…”

He swallows once, face unmoving.

“You’re all messed up. You just couldn’t let the world go on without one problem after another. Everywhere the Empire touches, bad stuff follows, and I’m tired of this shit!”

Ignis makes to chide him but is cut off by Ardyn’s growing laughter. It gets louder until it hurts his chest, tone amused and mocking all at once. Prompto isn’t, though.

“Something funny about what I said?”

“You think the Empire the only problem?”

He winds down his laughter, one sooty hand wiping away tears and uncaringly smearing more black under one eye.

“Oh, you poor children. I sometimes forget just how little of the world you know, and find myself wondering if I should sit you all down and educate you about the bigger picture here.”

“You want to talk?” Noctis asks, now risen to his feet. Small bruises mark his neck where Ardyn’s fingers had closed around it. “So do I. I’m not here to fight you.”

“And I thought I had the privilege of being the Lady’s first visit,” he tuts. Noctis narrows his eyes in confusion. Ardyn reads his expression before continuing.

“Did you or did you not convene with her before coming here? Back to your home and her future prison?”

“Lady Lunafreya came here alone,” Ignis answers, eyes finding the Oracle at the base of the stairs. She hasn’t moved since they arrived.

“We are telling the truth when we say we had no premeditated plans involving the Oracle.”

“I should hope you did, for her sake. She’s positively wasting away with all those daemons inside of her.”

The four let out a chorus of confusion and Ardyn rolls his eyes, sighing audibly.

“I am finished with this filibustering!” he declares. All attention is on him once more.

“Say what you came to say and let us proceed with the show. I grow tired of this incessant bickering!”

“I told you,” Noctis reiterates. “I’m not going to fight you. Bahamut’s plan is to turn us against one another so we don’t get in the way of his plan, and I’m not going to let him succeed.”

“You? Challenge a god? Don’t be absurd.”

He lifts his hand ruefully and clenches his fist.

“Even I, cursed though I am with this power, could not dare to stand against the Blademaster.”

Noct steps forward, eyes resolute.

“You’re wrong.”

“And how is that?”

He feels himself losing control. His skin prickles with a sharp excitement as Noctis draws closer, one solid step at a time. Things blur together and lose their color, greytones melting to sepia and back. He takes an involuntary step away as the Prince ascends the stairs. He can hear his heart in his ears, pounding away mercilessly, threatening even the clothes over his chest. The slow trickle of sick oozes down one cheek, bubbling and popping. Noctis is speaking but he can’t hear him anymore. He feels frozen now, as still as the statue of Somnus once stood, stunned like a frightened child. The world almost completely fades but distinctly, bright and warming like an autumn morning, it all comes back.

Noctis’ hand reaches his shoulder, and bringing with it all of the colors. The steel of his eyes are far more intense up close, endless humility emanating from within them. His hair isn’t black like he’d always thought but rather bears a distinct corvid-like quality to it, hues of deep blue and purple painting it from root to tip. The meager light from outside douses his eyelashes and almost makes them glow, unflinching in their devotion to his words. Now, when he speaks, his voice is clear.

“We need your help, Ardyn. The world needs saving, and it’s up to you and I to make it happen. You’ll get your revenge, and your rest, too. And if it takes my life to make sure you and everyone else gets what they need, I’ll gladly give it. But not until we win or die trying.”


	19. A Capite Ad Calcem

In her days as Oracle, Lunafreya had met very few nonbelievers, and even fewer who were openly hostile to her and her beliefs. Sol, however, was on an entirely new level. The girl couldn’t have been more than 17 but harbored such a distinctly atheistic view of the world it hurt almost as much as her side. The existence of gods, goddesses, messengers— divine and worldly— were undeniable. Scientific, historic, and photographic evidence, among many other forms, existed of deities and their intervention with mortal affairs, so her status as a nonbeliever didn’t quite match up to conventional standards. Rather, she possessed a scornful distrust of all things pious, openly (and loudly) making known her stance to anyone who would listen. Lunafreya, for the most part, remained a constant companion and earnest listener, and despite their similarities, the differences were rock solid and impossible to ignore.

“You trust your gods so much,” she began one day as they refueled the bike, Luna scrubbing her motor oil-stained hands with an old rag and precious few drops of water. “And all they can do is send that dog every now and again to remind you of why you’re here.”

Luna had to fight the involuntary eye roll that almost completed its revolution before responding. At least Sol no longer doubted her as the Oracle. Life on the road had been tough on her psyche, and all manner of human and daemon interaction, none of them too good, left an even larger mark on her manners. Reminding herself that just because the world had lost some of its light it didn’t give her permission to act callously, she discards her rag across the seat and leans against it, hands before her.

“I have a spiritual and moral obligation to the Six. Not only am I under oath to perform to their satisfaction, I take pleasure in my duties. My death has not changed that.”

Sol looks away, passing a hard candy from one side of her mouth to the other. They had stumbled across an old cache, positioned, uniquely enough, with a letter blessing the finder. In it was several packeted rations of freeze-dried foods, a few plastic water bottles, toothpicks, bobby pins, twine, and a tin of assorted fruit-flavored drops, the security tape torn but yielding almost the full haul of treats. They had decided to ration them as they would any of their foods, with increased tightness to preserve the rarity of them within the wastelands. Sol had allowed herself an orange drop after having taken down an especially nasty daemon who ruptured Regina’s gas tank and cost them not only precious time but resources to repair it. Gasoline was becoming more and more scarce and the spill had angered her enough to not only split the daemon’s skull but stomp upon it afterwards, making sure it was dead and then some. Luna had been grateful to be spared the miasma from it, reeling internally how large it was. They used her powers sparingly, too, only having her absorb daemonic energies as a last resort. While she grew stronger with each kill, it directly correlated to how weak her soul felt. Accidents were becoming more and more frequent where she would have to hide from sight, Sol sequestering her behind her white serape or dark hoodie. It was almost as if the reserve of miasma was larger than her body could physically handle, the metaphorical sides spilling over like an oil leak. Very literally, though, she did spill, her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth sometimes secreted a foul, thick substance, dyeing her sclera grey and plumping up the veins beneath her skin. Sol often commented on how it gave her an unearthly look, and seeing as though she had grown used to the sight it no longer scared her. Her attention was focused mostly on hiding the occurrences when they happened, recognizing them as a necessary evil in exchange for Luna’s new powers. A number of times had almost had them caught. Almost. Once, Luna had taken off her jacket to catch even a sliver of sunlight, letting her arms and neck be exposed, and had been struck by a random onset of pain. Unable to move or even breathe, she’d collapsed in the Lestallum trading hub in a ball of hot sweat, hands pulling her head to her knees. Sol had been haggling with a vendor when it happened but abandoned her hopes of a better deal when she scooped Luna into her arms, hastily throwing shards at a woman in exchange for a blanket she’d ripped down to cover the Oracle’s corrupted form. Plenty of good samaritans had offered to help but Luna heard Sol’s blatant, if not rude refusals from behind the fleece of the blanket. It smelled like mountain air and spring water, bringing watery tears to her eyes in addition to more miasmic discharge. High elevations and clean water were all sylleblossoms needed to bloom, and the thought of how the Ruin must have ravaged the field back home hit a tender, raw spot inside of her. She could feel the internal battle between her god-given healing powers and the blight the new, post-death ones brought with them, an endless cycle of stain, cleanse, with few, zero-level limbos to separate the high intensity of both.

Innocently enough, she’d come across a series of letters as a child, carefully packed into her mother’s desk at the Manor, sent from King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII. In them he not only described the daily tryings of the sovereign monarch of a kingdom but the unstoppable fear which pervaded his every day concerning Noctis. As but a young child of five, he’d learned of the boy’s role as the Chosen King, inevitably reduced to tears for his fate. He went on to detail, as a young man newly ascended to the throne, he’d had the bitter misfortune that he described, though “as enlightening as it was disconcerting,” of encountering the Flesh Eater himself in Insomnia, Lucis, the capital of the kingdom and seat of the Lucian government.

“It was as if my bones had been laid barren,” Luna remembered reading aloud from a page, marvelling at the practiced, imperceptibly perfect handwriting gracing the page, “And thus the bones of all my fathers before me, swept together by ignominious sentry into a single, horrific being which masticated the very surrounding light in jaws dark with blood.”

“But with this altercation,” it continued, “My very structure and presence dismissively disrupted and rearranged in a manner befitting the apex of sordid nighttime, came a sort of humility. Should it have engrossed my father as it did I, my cause to complain would have been naught— leastways in the present state of the affair and following sequentially. That I did not die on the steps of my home was of inexplicable good fortune: robbed of security detail, praised then defeated by a warrior much more exemplary than myself, and left to the elements merely awaiting his cursed sword wet with the blood of my forefather, his brother, to pierce my heart and thus end the line of Protector Kings. But in the aftermath of the domestic war, however short-lived it had been, my mind wracked with migraines of conscience, tunneling from crown to heel. How could I, in the face of grace and mercy towards my own, bring a life into being rightfully? That my own child, as surely as it must carry the weight of its inheritance of power, wealth, and divine servitude, is as inevitably as the star will traverse the cosmos, going to be held at the mercy of Adagium? Their life in exchange for His. I cannot, with any mustering goodness which dwells within, create a bastion for the Purging Light inside of their fresh soul. In all of my gratitude to my gods for protecting this earthly vessel, I must question desperately the burden they have placed upon my shoulders, along with their crown, to procreate a child who will one day face the same terror as has ravaged Insomnia, first from afar, now from a distance most distressingly close. My thoughts were and have thus been deeply saturated in grief for this glimmer of light— a delicate, ethereal thought not yet given life, contained within me, and somewhere, likely in the vast, brightly burning expanse of Insomnia, in the heart of the woman who is to become my wife. And yet, with unerring confidence and unassailable poise, I must do this thing which rots me to my marrow. Within all the resplendent boons of servitude to the divine lies the kernel of cost: servitude itself, with all manner of definition attached. Unflinching, impregnable, and inviolable I must be in my duty to the divine,  _ semper fidelis _ in all aspects.

Knowing this, my heart still swelled with inimitable joy when gifted to Aulea and I was the most dear bundle of life, his untrained eyes finding wonder in everything they saw, his face and limbs pudgy with youthful health. Perfect from conception to birth and unmarred thereafter, our prayers for his unencumbered longevity had been answered verily. Think it unbefitting of a King to admit so, but my envy for a child of my own spawned laughably intricate ways in which I might relieve Ravus from your care and take him as mine, exacerbated only once your sweet Lunafreya graced Eos with her presence, though I had since been wed and the possibility of a babe seemed all the more closer to fruition. In my deepest and most private heart, I knew my child would someday inherit the terrible knowledge of his true cause, yet when the news arrived from our patron Blademaster, a shock most thrilling ran my middle through as a sharpened saber does. The gravity of my decision, in all its profound weight, dragged my shoulders down to a level indistinguishable from the floor which lay below. My lone solace lay in the knowledge of the Queen resting far into the earth, ears bent not to man’s ongoings, and in my rosey perception I dreamed of her forgiveness for the heavy, heavy burden which haunted our gentle son from his very beginnings. By association, his blood would pay the debt which selfishly accrued with each great-grandfather, Adagium only growing more vengeful as generations passed him by. Aulea’s own lovely project, crafted inside for months from her very DNA, his bones forged from hers, the loan of what she gave unpayable though I wish it were not so, would sacrifice his soul to the unknown country. More devastated was I, then, to learn of his Omen, telling of loneliness and deception, falling into the machinations of the Flesh Eater with unrelenting swiftness— you will recall this visage from long ago, at his tender age of but five— unless he were to ascertain souls to whom his being would be precious. Souls who, undoubtedly, would share my sins of delivering the innocent lad to his demise. They, too, I have damned, and I fear admission to the fact that your daughter, with her calling so grand, will partake as accessory to the crime of theft. Theft, dear Sylva, of one life in exchange for millions. This is the fate of Lucis Caelum, forever in service to the divine, and so the Nox Fleuret guide and accompany with their wisdom. I wish it were not so, and yet to know the burden of rule is to wish the responsibility moved to no other, for its herculean weight does pull and crush with unrestrained might. You lie within an exclusive circle which contains those privy to the exact and calculated nature of pious favoritism, composed of you and I alone. Were our ancestors here to highlight our paths and bring forth the hard truths learned only by experience so that we might be spared the lesson, progress would be attainable at an accelerated rate. Perhaps even a new path, hidden behind the foliage of time and eccentricity, would emerge and allow our children to pass along their lives unscathed. For better or for worse—  _ de bono et malo _ , as my father would oft relay to me in times of perceived injustice— our fates have their geneses as well as their denouements and for reasons we may never come to discover in our lifetimes, they are bathed in blood of those dearest and those furthest. We may only follow our souls and minds to do what is best for our offspring, and to leave a guiding heart for them once we have left this earth to be their stars.”

How she remembered, what she believed was verbatim the letter, all these years into the future she couldn’t understand. Good, quotable King Regis never failed to share his hard-fought wisdom with others, and it was this and his unabashed affinity for her and her brother that endeared the old King to her so. He recognized the necessity of following his gods, for they had been on Eos for longer than any other known species and came to see the patterns within the trees, the way the waves lapped the shore from the grand ocean; how the flora and fauna reacted to the soil as deeply as the dirt itself knew to. They are the ancestors King Regis spoke of, here to guide their mortal wards towards salvation, even at the cost of individual lives. Gleaning their purpose took no large effort: it was grasping the truth of her own roles and quiddities which required much meditation. She thought she had come to terms with her identity long ago, but if anyone could shake the foundation she and her tutors had built for her, it was Sol.

She had been present for the destruction of Gralea a decade ago, and at a young age had witnessed how devote believers, praying to the Six for deliverance from demons, allowed themselves to be slaughtered due to inaction. That in placing all one’s trust in someone or something other than their own hands, they doomed themselves to unfulfillment in death.

“They just stood there,” she told Luna, eyes far away, head shaking and chin jutted. “And I watched from one of the mechs as daemons busted down their doors and cut off their clasped hands. It was like watching a rabbit lay down in front of a wolf, except the rabbit was praying to a lion to save it even though it wasn’t anywhere near a savanna.”

The comparison wasn’t lost on her but it did test her patience.

“Sometimes,” she began in reply, forming her words carefully. “Our lives are lived but to be examples for others. The mistakes of one serve as lessons for another, allowing for an evolution of human psyche that betters us as a whole.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

Sol had stormed off and remained away for the better part of twelve hours, Luna busying herself in the meantime by hunting, carving, and curing an animal to sustain them through their journey. She had been a vegetarian before Altissia, but as far as needs went her life and health eclipsed the stubborn want to consume only plants. Picky eating was a remnant of the old world, and although some edible plants had and could survive the darkness, she didn’t want to be in a predicament if, one day, meat were the only thing left to eat.

She and Sol had stationed themselves at an empty haven, blessedly and unfortunately set far away from the road. Almost all havens had been taken over by semi-permanent living fixtures, owned by former government officials, Hunters, and citizens alike. It was rare to find one that hadn’t been disturbed, let alone completely untouched for years, and they had set up station as quickly as possible on the protective stone. With provisions made and packed, her weapons inspected and cleaned, and no repair work needing to be done on their tent or clothes, Luna began practicing her martial arts, taking in slow, purposeful breaths as she warmed up for the more intense drills. She had always found solace in the methodical movements of tai chi, pushing and pulling herself as if underwater. When she exercised, she could think more clearly, ridding her mind of troublesome thoughts and keeping herself limber for the day’s grueling tasks. This was a good day when the pain that consistently bothered her was at a minimum, dully pulsing as background noise rather than the leading instrument. When she moved on to her higher forms, sweat beading at her hairline, muscles hot to the touch, she almost lost herself to the rhythm of the dance. The earth, though tainted from soot, breathed with her, all things in tandem. As she pulled herself inwards, arms flexed and prepared to extend once more, she threw them upwards and pushed her energy out, palms outstretched and open. Her fingers closed around the cold comfort of her trident, the familiar grooves sought out by instinct. She exhaled, chest heaving gratefully, and slowly brought it to her chest. The weight of it balanced her as much as itself was a balanced weapon, their centers of gravity in alignment. The silk ribbon wound around her thumb as if on instinct and grounded her to the haven, the yellow material so familiar, and gentle, and worn that it hurt her eyes. It was like looking into the floodlights head-on and seeing how long before she could no longer stand the fierce bubbling of fire interrupting in waves across her skin, one-thousand arrows marking her skin.

A twig snapped close by and she looked up, returned to the present moment. Sol was walking up the path of the haven, wheeling Regina by the handlebars. They held one another’s eyes as she ascended and parked the bike, hefting the weight onto the kickstand.

A beat.

“You’ve always had that lying around, or…?”

It’s the first time she’s shared a laugh with the girl, probably fifteen years her junior. Her curls are dampened to her face, dark and shiny from the campfire’s light.

“When we first met,” she says, settling down with a grunt beside the fire, running a hand under her nose. “I thought you were full of it. The Lady Lunafreya everyone knew never made it from Altissia, and didn’t even have a chance to get hitched like she was supposed to. Not that that meant anything to those of us in the capital. We were just trying to survive, and some Tenebraen royalty marrying our empire’s enemy Prince? Newsworthy, but it wouldn’t affect us everyday people.”

Luna doesn’t sit but continues holding on to the Trident, grateful for it but afraid if she takes her eyes off it will disappear again. Sol continues despite it.

“Then that black dog found us at the rest stop and went to you. You, specifically. This… muddy, bleeding daemonic girl with a serious identity crisis, was sought out by the loyal canine of the Oracle.”

“Umbra,” Luna answers. Sol nods.

“I always liked the white one better. The other one’s eyes creeped me out as a kid and made me think he was going to jump through the television in the kitchen.”

Sol has a pensive smile on her face, features illuminated by the firelight. Luna kneels beside her, laying her weapon across her thighs.

“You are reminiscent of someone,” she says, head inclining to one side. Sol looks at her once more.

“Oh yeah? Bet you’ve met a ton of people.”

“Though we were far apart, and my access to technology was far more limited than those of Lucis or Niflheim, Noctis and I… we communicated via Umbra in a special notebook, meant for just the two of us. They could both transcend modern security and deliver unguarded, uncensored messages between the two of us, but Pryna was ever reluctant to leave my side. Our correspondences grew sparce once I began my pilgrimage, safe in the meantime from the clutches of the Empire. But he wrote to me after a length of silence, detailing an encounter with a Niflheim official. He’s always lacked the facilities for faces and names, but does his best to paraphrase what people have said to him. Her faculty was best described as playful, even taunting. But he felt he could trust her.”

She now stares into the fire, suppressing the prickle stabbing into her spine. Sol shifts her weight and sniffs.

“Not sure who that would be. There were hundreds of government people in Gralea alone, about half of them women. Who knows who all they sent to hunt down your prince.”

Luna nods, unsurprised. She reaches for her satchel, pulling from it a red notebook and settling down with her legs crossed.

“I have continued to write in the notebook in hopes he may receive it one day. I would be grateful for the chance to share my experiences with him, and review the events as they were recorded in-time.”

“You think he’ll be back?”

“I do.”

Sol lifts her eyebrows but has the decency to not say anything, just turns from the fire and watches the dark sky.

“If your gods are so worried about the people of Eos, they sure don’t seem to mind our suffering while we wait for whatever they’ve got planned.”

Her reply is almost instantaneous.

“Your suffering will not be in vain. This, I can assure you. The mortals of our realm will see justice done and the Light restored. As for me, I am no longer human. What becomes of this flesh is no more consequential to me than the threads which fall from our clothing, joining in oblivion our buttons and garments of childhood.”

“But you have ideas,” Sol insists. “And hopes and dreams, and a will! You’re not just a mindless puppet for the gods to use and throw away when they’re done, you’re a person. No amount of politics, or— or divine callings is gonna change that.”

Luna feels her face crease in an uncommon expression: confusion. She observes Sol and sees her conviction in the form of drawn eyebrows, her lips pressed together in a stern line.

“I don’t like this divine mumbo jumbo, and I sure don’t like how they’ve convinced you you’re worthless outside of their dumb prophecies. You obviously like this prince a lot and it would be stupid to not follow that—”

“You’re wrong if you believe—”

“-- ‘cause some asshole in the sky told you you have to!”

She lets her mouth click shut and draws away, her jaw working itself lightly. Sol is enamored with her opinion, unwilling to sway with anyone else’s words. What more could she expect from such a young child?

Regardless, she looks away, sensation alighting her skin once more as she backs away from the fire.

“I have a duty to fulfill and I must obey their dictations.”

“Bullshit. That’s not your issue.”

“... They would kill me were I to disavow my destiny.”

Sol snaps her fingers, giving Luna a look that says, “I told you so” when she leans backwards. Luna shakes her head back and forth.

“This is not a simple matter of what I want: the fate of the world may very well rest in my hands.”

“Because of some dream you had? C’mon, Bahamut doesn’t control you! He stopped your guardian from telling you the truth; he purposefully shut her up so you wouldn’t know what he was really up to. You think I don’t read that notebook at all?”

Luna observes the thin volume in her hands, suddenly clammy. It’s not like she never told Sol not to read it.

She starts and thinks Sol is hitting her, but realizes she’s just draped a blanket around her shoulders and patted it down into place. She takes her seat back at the fire but scoots closer before settling into her spot.

“I thought about what you said earlier. How some people’s lives are just lessons for what the rest of us shouldn’t do,” she states quietly, obviously still impassioned. “And you’re right. But I’m not going to let my life be a lesson. I want to live it how I want to, and no one can tell me otherwise.”

There’s a small pause where Sol allows for a comment, but Luna remains silent. Sol continues.

“I’m going to turn their naïveté around and make sure I don’t end up some daemon’s dinner. There’s no way I’m gonna be like them, dying for nothing because I was too lazy or too complacent to bother learning how to fight back. And I’m sure as heck not gonna die in some country’s dumb war, fighting for a cause that’s not even worth it.”

The way she says it, with a hint of bitterness and a lot of resentment, tells Luna there’s more to her statement than just watching strangers die. The girl looks up, sensing the stare.

“What?”

“Did someone you know die in a battle?”

She rolls her lips together and smacks them, averting her gaze and chunking a rock to stir up the embers.

“My dad did. It’s not like I  _ knew _ knew him or anything, but I was raised by my grandfather and his friends after he got killed. It’s like there’s always been this space left there for him, but nothing has ever closed the gap or tried to take his place.”

“What was his name?” Luna asks quietly. Sol tosses another rock into the fire pit.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“My grandpa never mentioned him by name. His mom died a long time before I was born, and he had no sister or brother to help explain things to me. And then  _ he _ died when the Chancellor destroyed Gralea, so I don’t have anyone left.”

Luna runs her fingers along the frayed edge of the blanket. Ardyn.

“And what was your grandfather’s name?”

She pauses here, contemplating the answer.

“Iedolas. He was the Emperor of Niflheim.”

This takes Luna off-guard. Emperor Aldercapt had a son? And that son had a daughter?

“How… did you escape Gralea? Who knew you were there?”

At this, she blows a raspberry and chunks a rock into the dark. It hits some bushes and disturbs the leaves on them.

“One of his assistants named Loqi. I always thought he was kind of an ass, but when the city came under siege he took me in his mech and fought to stop the invasion. He was probably your age when he died, maybe younger. I didn’t see him get hurt but by the way he talked when he passed me off to Aranea it was like he knew what was gonna happen. That, and his malfunctions alarm kept going off no matter how many times he hit the switch to stop it.”

She breathes in, then out loudly, casting a look to the sky.

“I think once it hit critical, he set it to self-destruct and took out as many daemons as he could before it blew.”

The name Loqi, or Aranea for that matter, don’t sound familiar. But it’s obvious that Sol intended to learn from these people just as she’d learned from the civilians of Gralea.

“Did the Chancellor ever speak to you? Surely, if the Emperor’s assistants helped raise you, he too had involvement in shaping your life.”

“I was more of a secret kid,” she admits through closed teeth, somewhat embarrassed. “The reason you never heard of me is because I was supposed to not exist. My dad died fighting some meaningless war for his country, and because my grandpa never expected to die thanks to magiteknology he didn’t see much reason to keep me around except for that I knew too much. Everyone— besides that scientist, Besithia— didn’t care much for killing kids, so I was just sort of… there. Just little Solara. I saw that Chancellor guy around the Keep a lot but he never bothered me. I always wanted to take his hat, though. Seemed like it bothered him to wear so many clothes so I thought I’d take it off his hands. Err, his head, I guess.”

She has a fond look on her face while she speaks, cracking a close-lipped smile that slowly melts, one side falling before the other, giving it the illusion of a half-grin.

“I always thought he was weird, but never enough to light the whole goddamn city on fire. I’d heard what he did to Insomnia, and how he and my grandpa had used their big daemons to take out its defenses, but I never dreamed… I mean, I never thought he’d…”

She trails off here in defeat, at a loss for what to say next. Luna blinks slowly in case she has more to add. She doesn’t, so Luna licks her lips and responds.

“That Chancellor at the Keep… the one whom you longed to take the hat from?”

Sol looks up, eyebrows pushed upwards in rare concern. Luna takes a few short breaths to steady herself.

“He is the one who killed me, and why I must go to the ruins of Insomnia, Lucis.”

“What? No.”

Sol shakes her head and grabs for Luna’s arms in a plea.

“You’re not going to fight him. He’s dangerous, Lunafreya.”

She had been prepared to rebuttal the girl’s words but stops when she hears her full name. Sol, too, stops and draws back, letting her hands slip out of their grasp on Luna’s cold skin. She finds herself missing the human contact.

“I know you wrote that you have to take him down, but that’s not your job: that’s Noctis’. You really wanna throw a cup of water on a housefire?”

She shakes her head, saddened.

“I thought our time together would change that.”

Luna makes for her hands, taking them gently with a squeeze to each.

“As I said, my death has not changed anything. What I do, I do for the future of all, especially children like you, Sol. You deserve a future, and a man I once knew told me that when giving a future to those who want to see it is weighed against one’s own life, the former holds more meaning than any one life could contain in its entirety.”

For the first time, she sees tears in Sol’s eyes that aren’t from pain or frustration. They’re the slow, methodical kind that roll, first with just one, then in a steady, continuous stream indicative of sorrow. She had really counted on Luna changing her mind.

When Sol falls into her chest and heaves a sob, Luna just pets her hair and shushes her, one hand still clasping hers. The fire doesn’t hurt her, then, and whether it’s from the healing warmth Sol brings to her pallid skin or the shade she provides from the flames while pressed against her, it touches Luna’s heart in a way she hasn’t felt for a very, very long time. It makes he rethink her earlier comment about lacking in humanity.

Sol finishes her crying, lifting her puffy face up from Luna’s sternum and wiping the wetness away. Luna drags a gentle thumb over her cheek to push away excess tears, smiling comfortingly.

“You and I,” she says, keeping her voice low. “We are going to help bring the sun back to our world. We are going to watch as dawn breaks over the horizon and illuminates the future, never looking behind us because the light is just so enthralling. Will you promise me that?”

Sol nods her head once, but Luna persists.

“Assure me that when I am gone, you will live your life as the recipient of a great and powerful lesson on selflessness, and that we who perished with the night will not be remembered by our names but rather our impact on the survivors. Come what may, that Loqi, the citizens of Gralea and Insomnia, your father, myself— our value will have been in shaping the future lives of the new world’s population. You must swear this oath.”

“I swear,” Sol replies, face crumpled in tearful acceptance. Luna pulls her into her arms and hugs her tight, passing her heart on to the one person she knew would live to see the dawn rise again over Eos. The heart she would have to carry from now on would be one of resolution.


	20. Principium

The Emperor did not make good on his promise to promote Ardyn to Chancellor, at least in official writing and declaration to the cabinet. He agreed to work closely with him, Verstael beside him as Chief Scientist, as his political advisor and occasional chess partner. Young Iedolas was as sharp as a tack and twice as shiny, letting nothing slip him by without his knowledge, and making it known that he knew. It was a brilliant tactic to dissuade any naysayers that resided within the government.

“I must admit, I was skeptical of Chief Besithia’s abilities to make his vision a reality.”

The Emperor ponders his pieces on the board, carefully picking one up and moving it forward. Ardyn observes this and adjusts his mental itinerary.

“You would doubt your trusted scientician so much?”

“He is a scientist, not an arms dealer. Though he has dabbled in many a field of study, his major, for turn of phrase, is not in warfare. A fool would harbor no doubts concerning the success of a project so grand.”

“And yet, here we are,” Ardyn finishes, making his move on the board. Iedolas lets slip an impressed smile and quickly takes one of his pawns.

“You are classically trained, and yet you appear to forget the new rules of this abstruse game,” Iedolas declares triumphantly.

“You find this abstruse?” Ardyn asks, making another move. Iedolas raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on his choice.

“I find it tedious to learn and unfulfilling to win, save for when against men many years my senior. My father once warned me about the pride of old men, saying that a wound to it was like a wound to their stomachs.”

Another turn of moves for them both.

“Why to their stomachs?”

“Why, to their hearts would prove fatal. To their stomachs would be debilitating to all, causing a spill one is liable to slip on, but healing would surely take place. Their hips could not withstand their own mess, either.”

Ardyn offers a laugh and stops to think about his next move, hand caressing his chin’s dark stubble.

“I find you most intriguing,” the Emperor comments. He makes to continue but Ardyn politely interrupts, timing his response just so.

“And I you, as well. Your penchant for control is an attribute most leaders neglect to exercise. Within reason, of course. Squeeze a man and he will fight before giving in, but squeeze him too hard…?”

“And he will be of no use,” Iedolas finishes. He eyes Ardyn suspiciously. “Am I to take that thinly-veiled compliment as a threat?”

“Of course not!” he responds, affronted hand rushing to his chest. He quickly removes it and moves his pieces, cornering and overtaking one of the Emperor’s in a decisive blow. Iedolas stares, dumbfounded, before Ardyn speaks again and gets his attention.

“Though you may want to consider loosening your leash on dear old Besithia. He’s ever so used to working alone that his bedside manners, I’m afraid, remain less than amiable. Why, one of your poor trainees collapsed from stress after he had her write an extended thesis on the metamorphosis of binary to modern computer code, after she had produced an unsuccessful string with which he planned to use in a new sort of fantastical weapon. The project was very nearly laid to waste by this mistake! Could you blame the Chief for his ostentatiousness?”

Iedolas appears less than convinced, taking his time to plot the next movement on the gilded chess board. His intercom buzzes and he hits the talk button without looking.

“Your Radiance?” a secretary asks.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Colonel Ulldor has returned with his report.”

“Send him in at once.”

He stands from his chair, white gown falling back into place smoothly, eyes still glued to the match in blue astonishment. Ardyn is reminded all at once of how different he must look to the people of this era and of this country, red-violet hair burning against his skin and brown eyes deeper than any he’d seen before. Verstael himself was very different from everyone here as well, though namely for his splotches of dark freckles and eyes the color of wildflowers: Ardyn had seen other blonds like the scientist and redheads not unlike himself, but the burgeoning doubt that he would ever truly pass under the radar of suspicion nipped at his heels consistently. Though much to his relief, no one with blue hair and even darker indigo eyes ever seemed to surface around the Keep, that gene blessedly gone from history or at least confined to Lucis.

He felt the sudden urge to write poetry.

The door opens and Ulldor steps inside the room, bowing swiftly before raising himself to speak. He gets a syllable out before stopping and eyeing Ardyn.

“Will he be present for the report, sir?”

Iedolas turns to Ardyn, regards him, then faces Ulldor.

“Will it be an issue?”

“N-not at all, Your Excellency. I was merely unaware of his presence.”

The young Colonel begins his briefing, the Emperor listening closely and making additional comments as necessary. Ardyn didn’t care to listen and instead thought back to the battle in Ghorovas Rift, how keenly Verstael had clung to him after nearly ripping his face off for being absent for roll call.

“ _ As the flower enthralls all with beauty, so it too bites the uninformed, for such is the nature of the carnivorous plant, Verstaelus besithicus, _ ” he recites to himself, making a note to write it down later. Ulldor gestures to his stack of papers, vehemently defending some issue with which the Emperor has taken note of. Ardyn listens to the music in his mind, fingers rubbing the piece which he’d taken from the Emperor earlier.

“ _ Thither the darkness it goes, obumbrate in all aspects, save for the shocking, brilliant display of its… hair? _ ”

He can’t concentrate when their bickering grows louder. He presses the piece between his thumb and forefinger, registering it for a second before he doesn’t. Silences creeps into his ears and he opens his eyes to see the men staring at him. The solid marble base of the chess piece lies within his hand, the top of it broken off and fallen to the board. He makes no indication of embarrassment, rather electing to chide himself for not keeping his temper in-check.

He needs to see Verstael.

 

The halls were busy with packs of Keep officials, people in military uniforms and casual clothes alike. Even those in khaki-colored slacks and cardigans had a secret purpose, however, their knowledge or resources undeniably pertinent to the cause. He hasn’t quite memorized the layout of the building despite having never left it save once for the Rift-- that is, only one time anyone else knew about-- and becomes lost twice, hair swinging as he looks around for a map in any language.

A bustling group passes in the hall across from him, and were it not for the millisecond of gold he catches from someone’s uplifted wrist, he wouldn’t have known where to look next.

He tags along behind the gaggle of some ten people, all vying the lead scientist for answers to their questions. They look like undergraduates, green and fresh in their eagerness to learn. Verstael, meanwhile, looks as studious as ever, eyebrows permanently creased down the middle from concentration. And no small amount of admonishment, he hears, as he trails a good few feet behind the moving mass of legs and rustling scrubs. Some break off from the group to pursue other lines of inquiry, some are pulled away by other interested parties, and it isn’t long until only two students remain to hound Verstael. He talks loudly back and forth with one who doesn’t seem to mind his callousness and plays off of it, making some remark which catches him by surprise. The scientist asks for clarification and the student explains, bringing a rye chuckle past the blond’s lips. The other students joins and Ardyn does too, seeking to bring attention to himself. As expected, Verstael picks his voice out immediately and faces him, smile still playing on his face.

“Go on, now,” he dismisses, waving the students away. The cheeky one protests and he takes him by the arms and guides him away, the second, quieter student taking him in the pass-off and leading them both down a hallway past various labs. He’s leaning on the wall, arms and legs crossed, so Verstael approaches him, clipboard stuffed into his coat pocket.

“Where have you been?” he inquires, face still creased. Ardyn reaches a thumb forward and physically smoothes out the line on his forehead, Verstael taken aback and becoming very still in confusion. He pulls his hand away when his brows recede, nose crinkling in the middle with rueful pride.

“We’re not immune to the vexes of age,” he explains, carefully leaning himself against the wall. “Though, were it not extendible to our bones, my gratitude would be immense.”

“An old man’s folly?”

Verstael huffs and concedes. “Not too old to be pursued by young learners, it seems. One so boldly proclaimed to have known me at university. Her look once I explained I was performing surgical transplants at her age will sustain me through the remainder of today.”

This lighthearted dryness from Verstael was not unusual these days, tone haven taken a more exhausted approach since they’d returned from Ghorovas. Ardyn had no doubt that his rest of the day would include 14 more hours of hard intellectual labor and no small amount of black coffee. He inclines his head, watching as the Chief grows silent and warily scouts out a passerby. He’s tired.

“How goes your infection?”

“Cold pills can only kill so many symptoms.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, probably nursing a headache. It’s cold in the Keep so he has a black, longsleeve turtleneck on under his coat. Ardyn tries to will away his collar to peek at his skin but doesn’t seem to possess that power in among his mental inventory. He sighs and averts his eyes when Verstael looks back up, acting as if he hadn’t just been staring intently moments before.

“And how goes the project?” Ardyn asks, pushing himself from the wall and walking. Verstael joins him, grunting with effort.

“It goes as it does. Ulldor continues to defend the sanctity of human life, proposing that we offer higher stipends and advertise to hospitals and their patients for volunteers, rather than taking those whose crimes have earned them death.”

“What wrongdoings constitute a punishment such as that?”

“Thieves, mostly,” Verstael answers as they round a corner. “Cases of murder including gross mutilation of the victims are popular, as well. Self-defense holds little weight to the law when the cadaver is hardly recognizable. In fact, I’ve met many faces whom I assisted in convicting. Years or months ago, it hardly matters. When an identity is impossible to confirm using standard facial analysis or thumbprint markings, it appears my work has been beneficial to the public.”

Ardyn still doesn’t quite know how one would go about obtaining a person’s identity through Verstael’s line of work, but he thinks it impertinent to ask.

“And how do your murderers and thieves take to the plasmodia treatments?”

“If you’re asking for any significant differences between a criminal and the average Gralean, there’s little to no data to compare the two,” he grunts. His voice sounds scratchy, almost as if he’s swallowed a pair of filleting knives.

“We were initially hopeful for a chance to juxtapose the two and perform a study, and yet volunteers are more elusive than our initial statistics projected.”

He says this last sentence with some trouble, his voice going hoarse and throat attempting to bypass something. He stops in his tracks and coughs violently into his hands, onlookers startled by the noise. Ardyn swoops to his side and covers him from scrutiny, concealing his body with his much taller frame.

“Are you alright?” he asks, own voice tinged with concern. Verstael’s face is red and he hasn’t stopped coughing to breathe, shaky inhalations barely making it inside his lungs before expelling themselves loudly. His coughs sound hard and painful, his chest rickety with each gasp. Ardyn evaluates and takes action, guiding him by the shoulders past flocks of worried onlookers. He knows enough of the layout to weave them into a vacant lab space, the only lights peering from incubators and cylindrical tubes set to heat for a day or so. He flops Verstael onto a stool and tries to hold him still, struggling against how tense his muscles have become. Sweat pours down his neck and makes his clothes sticky, sealing them to his shape.

“Verstael,” he says, then once more in a firmer voice.

“Verstael, I need you to listen. You must control your breathing. Do you understand?”

The scientist can only lift his head in an attempt to get oxygen, his eyes rolled heavenward as he chokes for air. Ardyn speaks again while loosening his tie, pulling it down and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He thought having the collar open would help, but it seems to have no effect.

“What do you need?” he tries, then thinks to elaborate. “Give me a gesture or sign if you cannot speak it.”

Slowly and with much effort, Verstael jerks his hand to his coat pocket and tries to reach inside of it. He’s shaking too badly to accomplish that, however, and has to bring his second hand to his mouth to avoid vomiting.

Ardyn reaches around and fumbles in his lab coat, finding nothing of use inside. He searches the other, then remembers his inner pockets. Letting the shoulders droop around his frame, Ardyn pushes the coat halfway off and finds a small red inhaler, the description in some language he barely understands. He sees the word “shake” and does so, unable to look away as spit creeps from between Verstael’s clenched fingers and falls in fat, stringy droplets to the floor.

“Open,” he states. Verstael complies jerkily and Ardyn inserts the end of the apparatus into his mouth, pumping down on the cylinder once. He thinks he sees a nod so he does it again, Verstael breathing in shakily against his body’s rebellion. A wet hand relieves him of the duty and presses down a final time, dispensing the aerated medicine. He sets the inhaler aside and breathes loudly as tears roll down his face, pushing them away in vain with the palms of his hands. He buries his eyes into them and hunches over, loud breaths turning into long, calm ones.

“I know you may not agree,” Ardyn says softly from where he kneels, pushing his blond hair back into a short ponytail and holding it away from his neck. “But I need you to convince me you’re fine. Hold up two fingers.”

Verstael does so, replacing his palm back to his eye when Ardyn makes a noise of understanding.

“Now follow me.”

He inhales slowly and deeply from his mouth, chest jutting forward and back arching, then exhales through his nose. Verstael again complies. They breathe together for about a minute, Ardyn watching the Chief’s shoulders fall from his ears and feeling his pulse resume a normal beat, eyes flicking toward the exposed watch on his wrist.

Ardyn removes his hands from Verstael’s hair and smoothes them over the top of his head in what he hopes is a soothing manner. Verstael paws for the front of his coat and pulls out a handkerchief, covering his face and rubbing away the mess of his attack. Ardyn lets a small laugh escape.

“Feeling better?”

Verstael nods into the cloth. While it’s held there, Ardyn takes note of the thick grey veins poking up from his wrists and neck, passing behind his scars and calluses and disappearing into his body. Verstael pulls away from the handkerchief, folding it into fourths and dabbing at the edges of his eyes and lips.

“Verstael…” he begins. Verstael responds immediately.

“You needn’t have seen that.”

“Pray tell, what just occurred?”

“Asthmatic exacerbation,” he answers, eyes still averted. “I fear the symptoms have been returning for weeks.”

“Is this the first time it has happened?”

“... No, I fear not,” he responds truthfully.

“Asthma bedevils children more so than adults, yet it is not uncommon to experience a resurgence of uncomfortable, but mild signs throughout adulthood. It can be caused by sickness or situations of great stress.”

He points to the red medicine dispenser.

“That is a rescue inhaler, made for situations just like this. I was lucky to have had it on-hand.”

“Have you always carried one?”

Verstael hesitates.

“No, not always. The symptoms of this cursed affliction haven’t plagued me since adolescence, and yet they have returned with a dogged force I didn’t anticipate.”

They’re silent for a moment, taking in the meaning of this information.

“The subjects who have had the plasmodic daemonification successfully administered have been suffering an ego death, ergo they become unstable and impossible to control. All sense of self leaves the body as it is overtaken by corruption, creating a… mass of cells which I am loathe to call alive, yet their existence does point to such a conclusion.”

His breathing regulated, he slouches forward on the stool.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Ardyn blinks in surprise.

“Your candidness is appreciated,” he replies. Though this is exactly the moment he’s been hoping for to introduce, what may possibly be, his craziest plan yet.

He stands to his full height, knees popping, and goes to idly examine a bubbling beaker.

“No insight from His Radiance?”

“None that I could count helpful in any meaningful sense. To say that the ego is the issue is to say no more than those who wish to remove the sun to cure climate change.”

He understands his point but dances around it for a while longer, thumb finding the lip of the glass and stroking it. Verstael continues.

“Ulldor may have had a valid point in considering the responsiveness needed with real-time combat. Though our programmers possess the knowledge needed to create the suit’s circuitry, the spontaneity factor remains elusive. If the subject given the treatment doesn’t wish to respond to orders, or in fact has that trait erased entirely from their DNA in the sublimation process, then they are useless to the army and the cause.”

“Quite right, dear Chief,” Ardyn responds, all buoyancy returned. He slips from the beakers and slowly walks the perimeter, coat catching the fractional light from the surrounding machines. He can feel Verstael’s eyes on him, judging.

“What have you got?” he asks.

“Who, me?” he feigns. Verstael purses his lips.

“Yes, you. Is there anyone else here acting as though he has the world’s answers in his coat pocket?”

The scientist’s hands flop back down to his side and Ardyn smirks.

“As astute as always.”

He begins pacing once more, working himself up.

“I have a suggestion, though something tells me you may not like it. Or you may very well enjoy it, and I’ve yet to discern which resulting emotion would deign to frighten me more.”

“It depends on how fast you get it out of your mouth,” he grunts, buttoning his shirt back up and undoing his tie to fix it.

“Use children. As your subjects. Infants, specifically, as their egos are not yet defined enough to present problems with the subjugation process.”

There’s a silence between them where Ardyn doesn’t look at him, just pokes at a clear jar of preserved eyeballs. After a beat, the Chief speaks.

“Where on earth did that thought occur to you?”

He doesn’t look Verstael’s way, just takes the glass jar and shakes it up and down in both hands.

“I sincerely hope it wasn’t during ruminations on children of your own,” he adds.

“Is it _ such _ a terrible idea? The darling little things won’t even know what’s happening to them, possessing neither id nor ego. And the best part, is that we won’t even have to name them all. That’s what computers are for.”

He chances a glance to the man and isn’t disappointed with what he sees. Frumpled, disheveled hair between his long fingers, vainly attempting to push it back into place along his scalp, and pensive look in his eyes. He shoots from his stool, one hand to his chin, and grabs for a red dry-erase marker, plucking off the lid with his teeth and hastily jotting down formulas along the board’s surface.

“If we bypass the 9-month long stage of conception and growth, we not only eliminate the factors of healthcare for the pregnant but almost wholly eradicate the need for volunteer subjects altogether. Birth defects due to genetic diversity would be nonexistent were we to derive the biological material from a singular, pure source, free of hereditary hamartia, save for the inherent scruples and vicissitudes of… cloning.”

He stares at a complex formula of aminos and peptides, making a few final marks along the outskirts while his brain turns its gears in his head. Ardyn sets down the eyeball jar quietly, eyes fixed on the back of his head. Verstael slowly backs away from the board, placing the lid on the marker and twisting it around between his hands. Ardyn makes his way toward him, his shadow overtaking the faint lights that paint the scientist in eerie blue.

“It could work,” he accedes, eyes huge with promise. His profile is hopeful-- joyous, even, and it takes so much of him to not reach out and take his face into his hands. Luckily, Verstael breaks away suddenly, hands fidgeting the marker once more.

“If I were to use my own genes as the father source of the children, we could possess an unending reservoir of material to work with. Then, once the code has been established and run through the quadratics for incomplete sequences, it could be recreated thousands of times over before ever needing a return to the fundamental baseline. We could even introduce partial diversity to the line and test whether those variations yield increased performance!”

He’s to the exit and out of the door before Ardyn can say anything else, the metal hinges moving silently to close over the space. The intrusion of hallway light illuminates the room for slow moments to follow, air brakes on the top giving resistance to the gravity of the heavy metal. It clicks back into place and Ardyn smiles at it, plucking the scientist’s fallen tie and discarded handkerchief from the floor.

If Lucis believes they will come out on top of their countries’ conflict, they had failed to factor in one Verstael Besithia, progenitor of the future soldiers of Niflheim.


	21. Recovery

Thanks to the many, albeit unfortunate from some points of view, people who had so generously donated their memories and knowledge to Ardyn’s cause of catching up with the current millennia, much of the processes described by Chief Besithia in his lengthy pitch to the Emperor and counsel took root and were understood by him as he heard and read them. But much to his unsurprised dimsay, the technicalities went over his head. He knew, from their puzzled looks and desperately-recorded margin notes, the invited officials failed to grasp the schematics of Verstael’s proposal as well. Ardyn saw very little of the man as he concocted his brilliant plan to upend the military stratagem, being genuinely surprised, one day, to find him very nearly bouncing off of the walls of his room.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he’d asked, mindful to keep his suspicion at bay. He’d been almost quite literally kicked out of the lab the day before for distracting the man whilst he worked.

“Your plan,” Verstael began, eyes on his clipboard, free hand gesturing wildly. “Rather, your very astute observation-- you recall? About the fundamentals of embryonic development?”

Ardyn nods. He does recall.

“It was good. Very good. I must profess that the clarity of the words spoken failed to register with me at the time, but upon reflection I see the wisdom within them. You are a genius! So much could be solved by so simple a calculation!”

He’s walking the perimeter of Ardyn’s room now, the spot at the edge of the bed he previously occupied still dented inwards. If Ardyn isn’t careful, he’ll walk right into the manic energy the man is emitting.

“So I ran the variations-- adjusted for variables X-Z-- and found nothing! Not a single thing of interest changed when factoring in your sequence! I then had the fellow from 10F run them for me--”

Ardyn takes Verstael by the shoulders and stops him in his tracks, keeping him in-place. His legs keep moving forward like he’s a wind-up doll, eyes not registering that he’s been caught. He continues as if he’s still walking up and down the walls like before, tone unchanged.

“-- And he found nothing of interest. ‘Well, what do you mean there’s nothing there?’ I asked him, and he had the audacity to reply--”

He slips a hand behind the man’s fallen bangs and checks his temperature with his palm. He pushes his hair from his damp face and begins to remove the white coat from his shoulders, slipping it down to his wrists and gently pulling each sleeve free. He folds it across one arm and begins to undo the cufflinks of his shirt, placing the silver pins in the coat’s breast pocket and rolling the starched cuffs up to his elbows. Verstael, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped talking.

“-- they’ve been what I’ve been working on because I know I’m on the brink of something truly magnificent! Could you simply imagine the possibilities were I to break this stalemate and create, for the good of the Empire, this modern addendum to our understanding of prenatal growth?”

He’s breathing heavily, pupils blown wide and bouncing around his skull to search Ardyn’s. Ardyn pushes a few stray locks back behind his ear, unphased by the startling revelation he’s on the brink of.

“You need rest,” he says quietly, hands on either of Verstael’s wrists. His breath smells like two pots of coffee and his pulse suggests more, beating against the walls of his flesh and turning up beads of sweat along the expanse of it. He’s practically vibrating with how severely his limbs shake, muscles pulled taut with the exertion of caffeine-induced excitement.

“What do you mean I need to rest? I need to get to running these sequences--”

Verstael lets out an undignified yelp as he’s hoisted onto Ardyn’s shoulder, legs and arms flailing to find balance.

“What in the devil are you doing?!” he snaps, face undoubtedly red. Ardyn ignores his protests, one hand taking hold of the back of his knees, the other sliding to cradle his head. He flops him down onto the bed and kneels before him, making quick work of his brown leather shoes. Verstael doesn’t stop him but watches with suspicious intent, chest heaving and arms quivering to support him. Ardyn stands and brings them face to face.

“Sleep.”

“... But my research.”

“Can wait until you’re well.”

Ardyn guides him slowly by the shoulders to lie still, shushing him all the way down. He looks somewhat frightened, eyes still wide and wobbly, but they begin to droop the longer he lays, muscles relaxing against the mattress. He lets go of his grip on Ardyn’s clothes, hands falling slack to his sides, and Ardyn pulls the duvet to his middle. Verstael pulls it the rest of the way, turning on his side and tucking it around himself in cocoon-like fashion. Ardyn blows air from his nose and squeezes his blanketed arm once, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of his head. The man is out before he lifts himself from the bed so he turns off all of the lights, leaving him to rest while he wanders the Keep to make a more detailed mental map.

By his approximation, it was a full 10 hours before the battered scientist awoke to rejoin the living, eyelids watercolored purple and hair unfixably messy. The high had left him with a crash just as intense but he seemed well within his right mind again, words spoken at a comprehensible rate to those around him and fingers able to produce legible script. He worked a full 7 hours then promptly retired to his own bed, raking in the hours to repair his overworked psyche and exhausted body. At some strange, wee hour of the morning, Ardyn felt a presence slip in beside him and press its head to his middle back, thin arm reaching around his waist to grasp at his hand tenderly. It was a small, yet powerful breakthrough in his own mind that reminded him of how slow progress becomes when basic health is neglected.

Several months later and thousands of pages of books read, reread, discarded in frustration, then copied and tested for accuracy, and countless hours spent in deep concentration later, they had successfully created a proposal for the newest addition to Project Deathless. One, it seemed, wasn’t sticking so well with the counsel.

“So, allow me to sum up this… expansive plan,” a counselwoman began, scratching at her head. The Emperor sat quietly at the head of the table, eyes on his briefing.

“You’ve theorized and successfully tested in vitro human reproduction, reliant completely on machines, and wish to instead use these artificial children to create our national defense team as opposed to the previously… purported use of criminals and volunteers?”

“The magnitude of this work cannot be summarized so succinctly, madam,” he replies, red cape swinging gently from his shoulders. He’s wearing his formal attire today, all heavy plate and high collars. If one looked closely enough, they would notice the new lines forming underneath his eyes and lips, evidence of his ceaseless devotion to the presented work. No one seemed to want to meet his eyes, however.

“I have revolutionized the way humans can be brought anew into the world, and with their troublesome senses of self as yet developed, we here at Zegnautus are capable of keeping them in a comatose state until such a time as they are ready to become magitek soldiers. They begin as children, as do we all, and yet are not aware of the passage of time as those who are conscious are. Through a proprietary blend administered intravenously to their slumbering bodies, they are aged rapidly, harvested for miasma, and used to power the cores of our soldiers, fueled by the ancient protozoa which has so longed vexed us. Their susceptible bodies will be encased in light-proof armor bearing the Aldercapt dynasty crest so as to remind all who look upon them of their radiant benefactor.”

He looks to the Emperor, but the man doesn’t respond. Another counsel member speaks up.

“Our ethics department… they had no quarrel with this?”

Verstael, to his credit, doesn’t roll his eyes openly.

“Nay, though they did express concerns on behalf of the process itself being used as a full replacement for in-utero conception and birth. I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this process will be kept within these walls and not released to the public, nor the private medical sector, for use outside of Project Deathless and its associated research. Ethically, this process is cleaner than that of our previously employed methods. Without a definable conscience, the products of the project’s labor are less than human, merely wielding the DNA and observable appearance of one. What makes us humans, rather, are our experiences and our consent to the world around us.”

They counsel members exchange worried glances. Verstael huffs lightly.

“You may find a more in-depth discussion of the philosophies surrounding the addendum in section C, clause 5.”

More than half of the members turn there and begin reading, concern palpable.

“I would like to move to a more, well, tangible subject of discussion,” a wizened old man begins. “And that is the cost projections. They are substantial, and I’m not entirely convinced that the reward is worth the risk you’re suggesting.”

“What risk draws your hardest scrutiny, Counselman?” Verstael asks, pen between his palms.

“The public one, of course,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “The taxes we impose are to keep the government running and prevent unrest amongst the civilians. You will recall, last we administered the green light for your ambitious visions, the outcry resulting from the casualties of putting down the Glacian. Though we are now safe from her vengeance, the severance and insurance payouts were… let us say, painful, to the pocket of the Empire, and to the hearts of those who lost family to the fighting. We are only now beginning to see the end of the court’s obligations to settle these claims of negligence and possible crimes committed at war.”

“Is the reward not justifiable enough to lessen your incertitude?” Verstael implores. He plants both hands on the wooden table and leans in.

“I offer you the ability to remove the human element almost entirely from the formula, and yet still you worry of the consequences of having all armed forces free of connection to the public?”

He lets his declaration sink in before continuing.

“With this addendum, our military might will be unbiased and impartial to defiers of the law. It is our express destiny to obtain the lands of Lucis and beyond through whatever means be made available, and your hesitation lies within uncertainty of mechanical men?”

“The cost is too substantial,” the counselwoman from before says, letting her briefing close shut. “Not only in monetary terms, which we thank you for providing in  _ excruciating _ detail, but in public trust. We cannot hold back on the admission of technology like this to be judged and either accepted or denied by the people. We are not a dictatorship, Chief. I suggest you rethink this proposal with accurate statistics concerning our concerns, then return for a reformed meeting at a later date. All in favor, say aye.”

All counsel members, save for the Emperor and Ardyn, raise their hands and signal verbal agreement. All eyes turn to Iedolas.

“Your Radiance?” one asks. Emperor Aldercapt removes his pondering hand from his chin, light hair barely moving as he sits up.

“Leave us, Counsel,” he instructs. The members stand and evacuate in an orderly fashion, guards escorting them from the room. Ardyn remains where he is seated, orange eyes meeting Verstael’s with determination. It’s the Emperor who has ultimate say.

“They are correct, you know,” Emperor Aldercapt speaks up, and both Verstael and Ardyn turn to face him. He looks up from the table, both hands before him on the polished wood.

“This is not a dictatorship. It is a meritocracy, involving scrupulous input on the election of officials not only from their academic peers but by the ruled body. The Emperors are no exception, being of blood relation to the first ruler, as we are firmly educated on the truths of the nation and the consequences of those truths. What you seek is exceptional, and the evidence supporting it moreso. But insofar as my counsel is concerned, it lacks merit.”

Verstael looks away for a moment in rueful disgust.

“Tell me why I should grant this for you, impartial to my highest trustees.”

There are a hundred ways, Verstael and Ardyn both know, to defend the merit of this project. Decreased national defense funds. Increased border protection and expansion. Revenge against the Lucis Caelum family for centuries of abuse of power. Verstael starts with none of them.

“There is an addition to our project which failed to make itself known to the Counsel,” he says, and the Emperor raises an eyebrow.

“If His Majesty would allow this boldness, my associate and I would speak of it.”

He looks back and forth between Ardyn and the Chief, interest clearly piqued.

“Speak, then.”

A grin manifests itself on Verstael’s face, revealing straight white teeth when he speaks.

“Something so rich and unfathomably rewarding that your meritocrats dare not dream of it for themselves, lest they become lost in the fantasy.”

“Immortality,” Emperor Aldercapt responds in a hush.

“And all the power insurmountable with it,” Verstael completes, raising one fist. He ceremoniously pulls one glove off and reveals his bare hand, grey and leaking fluid. The Emperor pushes himself back in his chair, struggling silently with himself on whether to look or look away. Verstael approaches him slowly, wielding his corrupted appendage like a threat.

“I am only beginning to understand the boons of infection,” he declares, admiring the flow of dark sick down his knuckles. “But even I, mortal yet as I am, can see past the repulsion of the side effects.”

The Emperor falls backwards in his chair in a scramble to get away from the Chief, face contorted in horror. He begins to call for the guards stationed outside but Ardyn swoops in, taking Verstael’s hand and gripping it in his own. The infection dissipates into a thick purple cloud, power sinking into his own body and coming to rest there. Verstael pulls his hand back with a sneer and examines it, free of hard, grey veins and liquid blight. Ardyn wordlessly turns from his friend and extends help to Emperor Aldercapt.

“A hand, Highness?”

The Emperor takes his hand and allows himself to be pulled up, Ardyn steadying him by his lower back. The Emperor looks at Verstael. The Chief, sensing his betrayal, meets his eyes.

“What kind of fool would bestow power unknown to his royal patron without first testing its safety?” he asks, not expecting an answer. The Emperor’s breath has calmed now, security, perhaps misguided, in being held by Ardyn. He leans out of his arms, lifting a finger to signal his status, and smoothes down his robes.

“You have your project,” he says, eyes wary. “And I will command the Counsel to do as you need. So long as you live long enough to see it to fruition.”

“My Emperor,” Verstael says, bowing with one hand before him. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving this plane before my work is done. With the power of the Scourge now under my control, our dreams may run as far and wide as the sky.”

Aldercapt nods and makes for the exit without another word. When the door clicks shut, the two men left regard one another with raised eyebrows.

“That was far less objection than I anticipated,” Verstael comments, turning around and stretching his arms above his head. He lets them swing back to his side and goes to collect his presentation materials, stopping first to refit his glove to his hand. The air in the room is pointedly more jovial.

“Did you see his reaction to my hand?” he comments from the other side of the narrow room. Ardyn leans over and rights the fallen chair, smirking.

“And how I swooped in to save the day?”

“Oh, we mustn't forget that.”

They leave together with barely-contained grins, ignoring the not-so-secret stares of the council members remaining in the foyer. Ardyn has been on his best behavior lately, reconciling with his new memories the names and faces of the more easily influenced members of the hierarchy. As much potency as they place on the ideas of merit and fairness, within the government of Niflheim resides a dark susceptibility. Their largest headpiece doubles as the weakest link, the greatest and most damning folly of aging men his true objective: life eternal. And in his pursuit, he had just allowed an undeniable megalomaniac, one whom Ardyn adored, truly, access to unlimited federal funding and the mantle of its military geneticist.

This calls for a celebration.

After issuing facility-wide initial remarks on the evolving nature of Project Deathless, they meet with countless individuals on the conception, requiring all participants to agree in writing that they cannot ever speak of the details of the facility with those outside of it, and doing so warrants an irrefutable punishment up to death. Many of the occupants, having worked with Verstael back in the mountain laboratory, paid no mind to the threat and signed without hesitation. Others, whether new to Chief Besithia’s methods, new to genetic technology altogether, or who had simply made it this far without being exposed to the ruthless machinations of he and his mysterious wingman, both of whom seemed highly attuned to a routine neither had purposefully concocted: Verstael Besithia the main, hard force, seemingly never impressed but always the subject of hopeful impressors, and Ardyn Izunia, a sweet suitor with a balm for any injury, no matter how course or how deep. Before the project addendum, he’d taken to tales of fancy with the facility occupants whose first instinct of Verstael wasn’t fear and encouraged them to seek further measures of romance with the elusive Chief. One after another, some more hopeful than others, Verstael turned them down with characteristic swiftness and left their broken hearts without so much as a dustpan to be scooped into. Now, those who hadn’t left after having their hopes smashed were more productive than ever, spurned on by the bitterness of rejection, caught in the cycle of the two whirlwinds at work above them. Gossip quietly circulated about the origins of Besithia’s right-hand man but no rumors were given credit due to a lack of evidence. And these people, Ardyn knew, were scientists, and as such he had taken the time to confiscate any material alluding to the discovery of Adagium and the Infernian’s disappearance, sending them back to the lab outside of Gralea for secure storage. He knew, with time, each of these people would find their replacement at the hand of a magitek. Verstael, in his infinite wisdom, had pulled strings from within the city’s medical and record bureaucracy and arranged for a series of forged documents to be crafted for Ardyn, fulfilling every last blank in his history, then securing the information behind walls thick with official red tape. It was strange to Ardyn to carry around pieces of identifying material, least of all because they weren’t authentic, but reckoned they were no different than the passage papers required of him and any other traveller in the era before the founding of Lucis, or the hand and thumb prints he’d used to trapeise the halls of the first lab. At the genesis of their uprising to prominence, the two were indomitable forces of grit and gumption, masters of their domains and stars destined to ascend higher than any before. The hefty titles and their resultant work were not without their great rewards, however, and Ardyn found the benefits of small stardom far faster than Verstael. Like how his mere presence could reduce loyal mortals to their knees and make their wills his to command. Which is how, in the midst of a particularly fair day, he’d contracted for a very special evening for his favorite scientist. Who, it seemed, was either too uninterested or suspicious to play along.

“Verstael~,” he coos, stalking around the back of his chair. They’d all but been instructed to sit on their hands while the delivery team unboxed and assembled the first set of incubators, Verstael the most excited to get to work but the least tempted to ruin the delicate process.

“I must implore you to join me. The process is nowhere near as enchanting when one is on their lonesome.”

“Instead of pursuing things of idle fancy, why don’t you pick up a book and begin reading?” Verstael replies, his own volume dogeared in several places.

“But we’ll be cloning and performing other feats of imaginative valor in a day’s time! Why don’t you take a moment’s respite to simply enjoy life?”

Verstael snorts but otherwise doesn’t respond. Ardyn faces away from him and slumps against the back of his chair, hand thrown to his forehead.

“Oh, to be cruelly cast aside by my closest friend! What other sorrow does ring as profoundly as this rejection? Dear me, I’m feeling quite faint.”

He continues sliding down, chair squeaking noisily against his skin where it makes his shirt ride up, and eventually runs out of room before he slumps to the floor in a pile of dark red hair. He lets out a final gasp and reaches out his hand, letting it fall to the tile with a resounding thump. Verstael audibly sighs and lifts his head from his book.

“Must you always be so melodramatic? Get off the floor.”

Ardyn harrumps once.

With a shrug, Verstael settles back into his reading, ignoring the mess of a man at his feet. And it works. For a minute. But his annoyance grows too strong to resist, and with another sigh, he bookmarks his place, stands, and steps over the fallen soldier until he’s hovering above his head.

“What good are you doing, mopping the floor with tears like that?”

“My pain is unending.”

“Come now,” the scientist responds, nudging him with his boot. “Up you go.”

When that doesn’t rouse him, he leans down and takes hold of one of his arms, bracing his feet and yanking on it. He lets out a long grunt of exertion, gritting out his words.

“Stand. Up. Before. I. Make. You.”

Failing to pull him to his feet, Verstael lets the limb flop to the floor and squats down, catching his breath. Ardyn rolls from his stomach to his back, face upside-down to the Chief.

“You would really force me to do something I wasn’t keen on?” he asks, eyes imploring. Verstael rolls his own, face still pink.

“That seems to be your motive, pestering me until you get to show me whatever’s got you in a tizzy.”

“Hmm.”

He removes the pondering finger from his chin and sits up, spinning on his bottom to come face to face and hugging his knees to his chest.

“You would enjoy it would you let me lead you to it.”

“Anything this world-rendering cannot possibly be good for my health.”

“And yet you insist on consuming half your weight in coffee each day that passes.”

He says this with a smug poke to Verstael’s nose, the man crinkling it in response. Ardyn rises to his feet and offers both hands to the seated man, retracting one at the last second and hoisting him up with just his right arm. Verstael looks startled, gripping onto him with both hands, before scowling and brushing off his slacks indignantly.

 

The halls are mostly empty, the buzzing of air tools and occasional shouts of construction workers permeating the still air. Ardyn has to call after Verstael when he stops and stares longingly at a closed door, taking in the  _ Do Not Enter - Men At Work _ sign posted by painter’s tape to the window. They pass by several security gates, scanning their badges one after another, being waved on by masked guards in a long cycle. When they begin trudging through sections of the Keep even Verstael isn’t familiar with, he grows restless but keeps his comments to himself, admittedly curious as to the nature of the trek. They finally reach the entry door and Ardyn scans his keycard, taking a few steps back and wiggling his eyebrows at Verstael as the alarm sounds. The thick metal sheets slowly open to reveal the outside, a view of Gralea’s tall downtown buildings he hasn’t yet seen. He’s ushered by Ardyn into a waiting van, attention caught on the city as they load in and embark on the mysterious journey.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Ardyn remarks after twenty minutes or so, offering his pack of trail mix. Verstael plucks out a raisin and chews slowly, eyeing the bag, then the man who offered it.

“I’m contemplating whether I’ve given you too much power, offering you agency to roam the outside world, unsupervised.”

“I will neither dennounce nor credit this suspicion, though that I must reassure you I will do nothing but benefit my gracious benefactors is wounding.”

“I do hope your twisted ways of defining words do not extend to this particular circumstance.”

They drive until the tall, grey fixtures become shorter and less crowded, concrete walkways turning to open fields, the sun able to bleed through and touch the earth with its warmth. Soon the open fields make way for thickets of trees, some scrubby and emergent, others tall and old, their bark flaking to the forest floor in sappy clumps. The smell of recent rain filters into the cabin, dense and fresh, pushing out the artificial air freshener and leather seat scents they’d been contesting with the whole trip.

Finally, with the sun separated into longs rays by the canopy, the truck grinds to a halt, the two exiting onto the plush soil of a worn trail. Someone pulls a chain and Verstael takes note of the tow trailer they’d had behind them, three escorts unlatching the back gate and two more disappearing inside to collect the gear. He looks to Ardyn for an explanation but the man offers none, hands casually inside his pockets. He’s wearing only the first layer of his ridiculous outfit, ruffled white shirt kept together by a decorative vest, striped pants tucked neatly into his black boots. His hat completes the ensemble of protection from the sun, face and neck the only exposed skin, and it seems to glow in the light of day. Chirps catch Verstael’s attention once more and he turns to see two chocobos pulled from the trailer, their shiny beaks beholding brown reigns and fluffy heads covered by an avian helmet. Ardyn looks down from his fond gaze of the birds and sees the scientist narrowing his eyes, posture irresolute.

“What,” he begins, and Verstael looks at him. “Haven’t you ever ridden a chocobo before?”

Verstael purses his lips, looking around in thought.

“My trepidation is…”

One of the birds chirps and flutters its wings, the handler beside it unphased.

“... Corporeal.”

They begin walking toward the animals at the same time, strides in tandem, and mount without a word. Ardyn is swift and independent, falling into the rhythm of steed and mountee, while Verstael requires a few more moments to situate himself, unsurely adjusting his posture to protect his more delicate biology. Ardyn lightly presses his feet into the bird below and the chocobo responds, beginning a slow walk into the trees. Verstael, looking once at the reigns in his hands, mimics Ardyn and controls his voice when the animal starts forward, following at a trot to catch up to its partner.

The scenery is lovely. The juxtaposed warmth of the sun above and the chill of the forest floor has Verstael’s skin rising, albeit in a pleasant way, goosebumps freckling the patches open to the air. He’s trailing just a step behind Ardyn, comfortable to let him take the lead. He looks at the man-- really looks-- and something delights in what it sees.

His hair looks like fire when hit by the sun, strands bouncing with each step of the bird below him, and a small smile hasn’t left him since they began their walk. He’s easily a seasoned rider, Verstael notes, remembering how deftly he’d mounted and how sparingly he uses the reigns. When Ardyn navigates a fallen log, Verstael follows with less grace but equal practicality, the man before him chuckling good-naturedly. It’s when he spurrs the chocobo into a sprint that Verstael becomes competitive, struggling to do the same without getting thrown to the ground. The bird jumps instead of running, then turns in a circle before breaking into a run, beak lowered in pursuit of the bouncing tail feathers ahead. Ardyn looks behind him to Verstael, smirking and returning to watch the road as it were. He bids the bird to go faster, spine attuning to his steed’s speed, feeling more at ease as the trees pass them by in a blur.

They navigate bushes, more fallen logs, small mounds and large ones alike, both mentally calculating how far back the obstacle will put them. They ride side by side for a stretch, wind blowing past their ears and leaving the metal jungle of Gralea behind them for just a moment. Ardyn chances a glance at the man beside him and feels his smile fall, just for a moment, when he sees solemn blue hair floating in the breeze, his own steed’s vibrant yellow feathers turned black and sleek. Time slows for just a moment as he turns his head back to his brother, strange indigo eyes piercing back at him with the intensity of a younger sibling. In an instant he’s back in Niflheim with Verstael, who is gaining ground ahead of him. They unanimously decide to mark the end of their race at the large tree which lay ahead, trunk wider than any three other organisms which surround them. Neck in neck, they pass the huge oak and skid to a halt, chocobos bracing their sharp talons against the fallen twigs and soft dirt.

Panting, Verstael looks for Ardyn. He turns once in a semi-circle, then again in a full revolution, seeing nothing but darker depths leading into the wooded area they’ve come to rest in. His panic is assuaged when white ruffles signal him to dismount and join him at the marker tree, Verstael guiding his bird closer before dismounting. His legs feel wobbly beneath him as he makes the short walk to the trunk, eyes taking in the ancient marks of the rich bark.

“Here, do as I do,” he hears Ardyn say from the opposite side of the tree. Two large hands plant themselves as far as they’ll go around the circumference, papping it as further signal to follow. Verstael braces his legs and hugs the tree, cheek scratching against the rough, oaky texture. He feels up and down for Ardyn’s hands, stretching as far as he can when they don’t meet, and lets out a breath of resignation when he extended his reach. He removes himself from the giant and levels it with an appreciative gaze, Ardyn picking twigs from his hair as he joins him.

“It’s magnificent!” the man proclaims, chest moving steadily. Sun can hardly penetrate the full overhead leaves, shading them in a coolness leagues below the rest of the forest. Verstael steps to it and places his palm against it.

“It’s certainly old,” he observes, thinking what little he knows about dendrology. Its canopy rustles above, foliage seeming as if to speak. Ardyn turns and plops his back against the trunk, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Verstael observes him.

“Did you know this was here?”

Ardyn opens his eyes and finds him, shaking his head gently.

“No. The chocobos were my idea. I couldn’t rightfully take credit for this find. This was you and I together.”

He smiles gently at him, patting the area beside him. Verstael slumps against the base of the tree, sliding down the coarse bark until he reaches the ground. They sit in silence, the cool, silent beauty of nature uncaring, unjudging of who they are. He begins to speak but stops. Ardyn turns to face him, to ask what it is he wanted to say, but stops himself when they come face to face. He hadn’t heard Verstael sit up and kneel so they were eye-level, his hand mid-reach for the taller man. Slowly, as if confirming consent, he finishes his reach and gently smoothes his hand down Ardyn’s face, thumb resting atop his cheekbone. He leans in and Ardyn knows it’s coming, so he lets his eyes dip shut, his own hand coming to hold Verstael’s outstretched wrist. It’s a tender kiss, Verstael placing little pressure behind it, Ardyn feeling like he’s holding the world when he reciprocates and brushes fallen hair from his face. It’s a unique, wholly characteristic thing that even his mind can’t spoil with false apparitions when the scientist grabs him by his vest and pulls him closer, pinning their chests against one another in a gentle, yet insistent, even desperate seek of closeness. Come what may in the months, years, millennia to follow, they would always have this moment, bound to their souls beneath the huge oak tree outside Gralea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a sap.


	22. Blooming Silver Lily

Luna awakens to the sound of hastily packed bags, hurried feet shuffling along the ground of a rocky haven. The other campers had already made their way out, having shared their space for a couple of hours in exchange for a few supplies, mostly from the cache she and Sol had found, so it was just the two of them. She sits up and rubs her eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks quietly, voice hoarse with sleep and dehydration. Sol doesn’t look her way as she tosses together one last provision sack.

“Yeah,” she answers quickly, running a hand under her nose. “We just gotta get moving.”

Knowing something is wrong but she’s not saying it, Luna slowly rises from her cot and looks at their surroundings. The fire has already been doused and Regina gassed up, her kickstand leaning more sideways than usual from repeated use. Luna picks up her jacket and slips it onto her shoulders, parting her hair from the nape of her neck and brushing its stringy strands with her fingers.

“I had a disconcerting dream,” she tells Sol. Sol is only sort of listening but Luna continues.

“You recall the one concerning Ardyn?”

The girl nods and makes a comment.

“I’m sorry?” Luna asks.

“With your guardian, Gentiana?” Sol clarifies. Luna nods, perturbed by how she missed it the first time but electing to address it later.

“Yes. She visited me again whilst I slept, and though she appeared so close to me, when I reached out for her, she was guarded by several large, ornate blades, preventing us from connecting. I asked after her again, but she could not respond. Only before I awoke did she mouth something to me before sending me off with her song. A phrase, a name… something I cannot reconcile.”

She meets Sol’s eyes and the girl stops, her own moving in thought.

“I had a dream, too. A bad one.”

Luna gestures for her to sit beside her on the cot and Sol does, stiffly sitting with her hands in her lap.

“I saw the old way station south of here get struck by blue lightning,” she offers, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. “Then a hoard of daemons spill out from it. It’s normally full of people working. Keeping the floodlights on, trading their stuff, fixing their bikes, but it was all deserted, and not in a good way. Like everyone had been murdered.”

Sol swallows. She’s wringing her hands-- a habit likely picked up from Luna-- which is never a good sign.

“I think we have to go there. Something about it is messin’ me up real bad and I can’t ignore it. I won’t.”

Luna nods resolutely.

“Of course. Let us sojourn there and find what beckons you.”

They finish packing and haul Regina from the high, rocky platform, Luna pushing back the unease at her own vision.

 

They make it to the way station without any interruptions, which should be a blessing and yet Luna cannot help but feel suspicious of it. Like it had been when last they passed, people mill around the cracked foundation, some weary, others refreshed, hoping to get some trading done. They secure Regina against a sturdy post and Sol pockets the keys, unloading most of their things onto her shoulders. Luna takes what she can manage and they set off slowly into the impromptu market, eyes scouring for anything of note.

Once they hit the innards of the commerce, bustling travelers moving around them in tired lines, she feels an attentive pat on her arm. Sol points toward a man in a grey hat and hustles toward him, Luna following in her footsteps.

“Biggs?” Sol calls, but the man doesn’t respond. She lays a heavy hand on his shoulder and he turns to her, confusion melting into surprise.

“Sol? What’re you doin’ here?” he asks. Sol is smiling, vindicated.

“I knew I’d find something here,” she declares, mouth quivering. “I had a dream where this place was destroyed by daemons and I had to check it out. There’s no way this is a coincidence.”

Confusion returns to his face. The man, evidently named Biggs, starts to talk, but when he registers the level of noise in the market, he waves them to a quieter corner of the station. Luna is happy to be free from the noise and the fire.

“I dunno what brought you here,” he begins, righting his hat. “But there ain’t nothin’ to be said at the moment. Lady A ‘nd Wedge went their ways for now while I gather some supplies. I’m ‘sposed to meet them later on.”

“Aranea and Wedge on their own? That doesn’t sound right,” Sol states with certainty. Biggs is clearly uncomfortable, scratching the back of his head under his cap.

“Err, look Sol, it was real nice to see ya, but I’ve got to get back to what I was doin’, I--”

“What were you doing?”

Sol has her arms crossed and is evidently suspicious.

“Gatherin’ supplies, like I said. There’s a merchant who--”

“What kind of supplies?”

“I don’t know what that has to do--”

“Cut the shit, Biggs,” Sol says, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer to him. He holds his hands out in front of him, backing away.

“Hold on, now,” he cautions. His knees hit a can and it clatters to the ground, his gaze returning from it to guiltily meet Sol’s. She tries him once more.

“Where’s Aranea?”

“Alright!” he squeaks, covering his head with both hands and moving in a semi-circle to escape being cornered.

“We was exploring some old ruins for supplies or information when somethin’ attacked us from the blue. Somethin’ real big and nasty lives in that temple: some sort of advanced daemon, like we’ve never seen before! It had huge eyes and even bigger claws, and a screech that could level the whole cavern. Before we could try and escape, it hit Lady A and sent her flyin’ across the room. Luckily, she’d seen it comin’ and braced for it, absorbin’ most of the blow with her spear. So we started fightin’ it, the whole place comin’ down around us with its footsteps, when other little monsters started nippin’ at our heels. The big one woke up its neighbors so we was defendin’ ourselves from all sides. I managed to get away from the mess and radioed to Wedge, who tells me that Lady A wants the whole place shut off from the outside. No rescue attempts.”

Sol is furiously searching his eyes, neck strained as she keeps herself still.

“I ask to make sure that’s what she wants and she yells to do it before it’s too late. I’m sorry, Sol!”

“This Aranea,” Luna responds, moving past the shaking Solara to address Biggs. “She couldn’t possibly fight a daemon of that size by herself.”

“I dunno, maybe?” he answers, wary of her but less afeared than of Sol. “Last I heard, she ordered Wedge out of there, too, so there’s no way she could make it against that thing with all the tiny things distractin’ her.”

They both turn and see Sol punting a metal object into the distance, the fence rattling when it makes contact. She stands with her back to them, seething. Biggs tries to calm her.

“I know how it feels, I do. But we’re doin’ all we can to get her out alive.”

Sol turns and storms in between them, parting through the crowd with her aura alone. Biggs turns to Luna imploringly.

“Don’t let her follow us, yeah? This is already a right mess and I’d hate to lose her to it, too.”

“Too?” Luna asks, and Biggs appears sad.

“There ain’t a thing we can do for Lady A at this point, ‘cept put her down so she doesn’t have to live like one of them. I need Sol to remember her as she was, not as she’s gonna be.”

With this dour news in mind, Luna sets off toward Regina and Sol.

 

She weaves past the people less efficiently than Sol, knowing it’s the quickest path to their bike but silently wishing she’d gone an alternative route. When she reaches their parking spot, So is furiously loading their items back onto it.

“Don’t try to stop me,” she says as a greeting. “I’m going to find Aranea and I’m going to help her.”

Luna reaches her and kneels beside her.

“I know,” she offers. Sol turns quickly to her.

“And what? This is where we part ways? Just say it, I’m wasting my life and you can’t watch me do it, or some bullshit. I don’t care. Aranea saved mine and now I’m returning the favor.”

Putting her acidic words aside, Luna unravels a map and slaps it down on the motorcycle’s seat. She points to a rocky section of it where the architecture has been detailed but bears no name.

“This is the temple he spoke of,” she asserts evenly. “It’s the only set of ruins for hundreds of miles which is large enough to house a daemon of that magnitude.”

Sol stares at the map, unblinking, then turns to Luna as she speaks. The Oracle continues.

“Once we reach it and find ourselves inside, we extract Aranea, then leave as quickly as possible for the outer regions, where we may find a physician of some caliber to tend to her more serious wounds. We may even make the trip to Lestallum if we can keep her comfortable.”

Sol continues to stare at her, seemingly unable to say anything. Luna knows this and rolls the map back up.

“We must make haste if we are to increase her odds of survival.”

Sol blinks, nods, then moves to mount the bike. They depart the station as quickly as they had arrived to it, leaving behind the burning safety of the lights for what could be their last mission together.

 

Darkness, binding and eternal. The magnanimity of them has her shaking. Without death there is no escape from the wet, cloying depths of the old temple. Their mercy is something new altogether.  _ Join us. Become as we are. _

And so, without a choice, she does. And for the first time in a very long time, she allows herself the comfort of defeat.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on Tumblr @ wantonglances


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